The Mundane Aftermath
by Coffee Filters
Summary: Arthur and Ariadne are friends. Despite sharing a kiss, they manage to be just that, just that and nothing else. They're there for each other years after the Fischer job. Of course realizing that you're in love with your best friend is always a slow process. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is an attempt. It may be pointless.

* * *

She sits at her gate and, inexplicably, a stupid smile will spread across her face. Embarrassed, she covers it up with a knotted fist, her index finger curving over her top lip, her arms wound round her middle tightly.

The couple down the row eye her good-naturedly, and she takes a sip of her accidentally purchased fizzy water.

That stupid smile will not go away.

* * *

Easily, she slides onto the wooden bench where he sits watching the Seine. The sun's setting. He looks at her and smiles as a greeting. She smiles back.

Behind them, the cobblestones of Paris and the milling Parisians continue to walk past. Other tourists give a moment to snap a shot of the landscape. The pair on the bench intrudes on some screens, nameless, unidentifiable, but the photographer decides the picture is worth keeping. The pair looks happy enough and they seem so natural sitting there together.

From this outsider's perspective, it looks like a normal boy meets girl reunion. The two obviously know each other from their looks, but the small greetings, lacking intimacy or closeness, gives the impression that they're just beginning, whatever they are.

"So," the woman begins, her arms already moving. "Where's Eames?" She faces out towards the orange and yellow sky, the one the photographer just captured.

"Mr. Eames has homework to do," the man replies smoothly. He allows a little chuckle at some untold story, and she can only wonder at what mishap could have fallen on the Englishman. Having only worked with him once, she can already guess. Though, she admits that she would most likely jump at a chance to work with him again. "He'll be busy doing some office work tonight, so he sends his condolences, Ariadne."

She nods and leans onto her elbows. "You know? I'm not surprised," she says thoughtfully. She laughs as well.

"Neither am I really." He lounges back into the bench.

They're comfortable in their own silence. Months of separation would normally encourage conversation, voices need to catch up with the thoughts and memories one needs to share. But instead, they just sit there, watching the boats lazily skim across the river, as only French boats can fashionably do. Calm is something he feels rarely, and that's exactly what he feels sitting next to her.

Pigeons neurotically peck at their ankles at left behind ice cream cone crumbs and baguette sandwiches, and Ariadne holds out her fingers, rubbing them together as if she had something for them. The pigeons smartly avoid her.

"So, Arthur," she starts. She pushes all her loose hair behind her ear and looks over her shoulder to see him watching her intently. He waits for what could possibly come after that introduction. "Hard day at the office?" she asks, and he can't tell if that's what she intended to say at first. He doesn't pry.

"Same old," Arthur replies evasively. The tiny smirk he uses lets her know that he can't or won't speak about it with her. Though, he's curious to see what tactic she chooses.

"Yeah all right," she puffs out. Arthur smiles at her easy way of giving up. She sits up and adjusts her scarf as she speaks. "So how long are you in Paris for?" She has to remove it entirely and re-knot it. She picks up her hair at the back of her neck and the scarf hangs like a bandit's bandana over her throat.

He remembers that particular one. It's lavender. She wore it often during the preparation for the Fischer job. He's pretty sure she wore it the first day they met. "Hard to tell," he replies, checking his watch like it had the answer. "Maybe a week? Two tops really."

Ariadne nods and drops her hair and pulls down her scarf over her t-shirt in the usual fashion. "And am I allowed to ask what brings you to the City of Lights?" she asks teasingly.

They both know the answer to that. Months after the Fischer job, Cobb called Ariadne. He asked her not to go back into the business. He wanted her to finish school. She was gifted, truly, but he understood the risks for her to be so intrigued with a false world. He told the boys not to contact her about any prospective jobs, which infuriated her to no end.

It was Arthur who struck up the compromise that they give her a chance after she finishes school, and Cobb and Ariadne, both thinking that they were right, agreed. Instead, they pretended that what they did didn't exist. They spoke to one another every once and a while, heard and gave news to Miles to relay, but the clock was ticking now. Ariadne is in her last term at the college. She needs to start looking into entry-level jobs, and Miles is giving her contacts in a couple of respectable firms in the city, a few around Europe, one in the states. It doesn't matter though, because she knows what she wants to do, what she could do. She only has a few months left of studies, and Cobb is always good for his word.

Which is why she was a little disappointed that when she got a call from Eames a few days ago, it wasn't to go behind the others' backs to enlist her early. It was to ask her for coffee as he and Arthur were actually in town on some business, business being the evasively teasing word used.

Of course, being Eames, they missed coffee—Ariadne good naturedly waiting at a café for four hours before giving up—and agreed to lunch, only to miss lunch—again waiting for four hours—and agree to dinner. The dinner then turned into dinner the next day—as he had the respectability and survival instincts to call beforehand—then the next, before Ariadne had to order Eames to commit because she had a life of her own.

"Of course I'll be there darling!" Eames had said over the phone, laughing at Ariadne's ire. "I'm so sorry to keep putting you out like this, but you know how working goes." She could hear the easy way in which Eames kept their work vague and felt hurt by the slight.

She does or, rather, she did knew how working went, but one couldn't stay mad at the Englishman for too long. He has a way of worming his way out of anything, her annoyance included.

So here is Arthur, living up to Eames' promise as promised. The opportunity is too good, almost.

So, her question may be unfair. It breaches the unspoken agreement they had all agreed on, but Ariadne was always curious, and Arthur was always there to give her straight answers. Why can't Cobb create the mazes? Who was Mal? What's in limbo? Would he tell her now what he was up to?

"Only if I'm allowed to lie about it," he replies smoothly in a somewhat straight answer. He levels a look at her to tell her not to push her luck.

"Fair enough," she relents, and Arthur watches her carefully, gaging her next move.

Quickly, she perks up. "So let's get the niceties out of the way now, shall we?" She pats her hands on her lap, and he raises an eyebrow as she leans back in preparation. "Ready?" she asks.

Arthur has a bemused smile on his face. "Go for it."

"So what brings you to the city of lights Arthur?" she asks, crossing her legs towards him and leaning her elbow on her knee to prop her chin on. She opens her eyes wide in comic-like interest.

He laughs. "Love," he replies.

Ariadne sits up, her heart stopping for a second. "Excuse me? You mean lights, right?"

He laughs again. "It's the city of love," he corrects. She sags in response, but she's quick to recover.

She looks offended. "You do realize that I've lived here for four years?" She waits for him to nod along. "I'd have more authority I think."

"Doesn't mean that you're right," he replies. "Besides. I've been here plenty of times."

"Yeah, for weeks at a time," she argues like any proud Parisian she scoffs. "Have you ever really lived in one city longer than a lunar cycle?"

It's a fair question. From what he told her during the Fischer job, he traveled with Cobb since Cobb couldn't get back home, roaming the globe for jobs, but it was aimless. Money couldn't solve Cobb's problem, and the more jobs they took, the more Cobb was at risk at being a target. It was a contradictory way of life if Arthur was honest.

But his last time settled? He thinks about this intently. She can see him make the calculations all over his face. "I've been to places you've only ever dreamed of being," he argues right back. She guesses that it's to buy time. "Places you've only ever seen in your course books."

"Well, I've grown moss," she says smartly. "I've explored places in Paris tourists like yourself would never be able to see."

"Of course you have," Arthur says.

"Of course I have," Ariadne affirms. She stands, holding her hand out to him. "So let's go see the real Paris then shall we?"

It's funny this gesture. It's almost childlike, the actual action, but so intimate and so cementing, perhaps in its simplicity. Arthur takes a second to consider it and wonders if Ariadne realizes how out of sync this is.

He takes it and allows her to pull him up. "Fine," he mock grumbles, which makes her laugh.

"So Arthur?" she asks. Their hands drop immediately as they walk along the river. He shoves his own into his trouser pockets. She swings hers from her sides.

The sun dips lower now, past the horizon, past the trees, past the buildings, and slowly the street lamps start to spring on. Their light has yet to have impact, but the orange, rosy afterglow is warm against the fading skies. "What brings you to the city of lights?" she continues cheekily as a few of them begin to pop on.

He notices her pointedly looking at the street lamps and smirks. "Why does anyone ever come to Paris?" he replies. He decides to tease her.

She doesn't reply but looks at him, simply.

"To dream," he replies, still walking.

* * *

They kissed on the Fischer job. There really is no playing that one off, but the funny thing is, after that, nothing. They were back to normal. They were Arthur and Ariadne, just as they should be.

Everyone went on their separate ways, Eames actually headed for the shuttle stations for a ride to Vegas, Yusuf went to the bathrooms, and Arthur actually ran into Ariadne on his way to his next gate.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, coming upon the petite woman standing in front of the Departures board.

Ariadne turned, clearly not prepared for him to be there. "Arthur!"

"Ariadne," he acknowledged. "What are you doing here?" He repeated.

She gestured towards the board. "I'm trying to find my gate. Apparently there's been a change."

Arthur took the few steps it took to stand next to her. "Where are you going?"

"Atlanta," she replied. "I figured that while I'm in the States, I may as well visit my family. Saito was nice enough to cover this flight for me when he found out I was coming along."

"Oh." That was simple and straightforward enough.

"Where are you going?" she asked politely.

"New York."

"Visiting the family?" She asked. Arthur forgot that he told her where he was from.

"Yeah," he admitted. Only Dom and maybe Eames really knew this bit of information about him. He generally liked to keep everything to himself, especially if it was about himself. "Just for a few days until the next job."

He saw Ariadne perk up at that. "Where—?"

Arthur cut her off. "I'm not sure Dom would like me to tell you, even if I did know where I was going."

Her face darkened. "Dom's not my keeper, Arthur, and neither are you for that matter."

"True," he allowed. "But we're the ones who brought you into this world, and trust me, you're way better off not knowing."

He could see that that comment got a rile out of her, but he could also see her keep it at bay. Her shoulders slumped, not in defeat but in a sneaky sort of defiance, like she was biding her time. She looked at the Departures board again, ready to let it drop for now.

"Are you 4750?" she asked. Her tone was considerably chipper. She looked up at him, and Arthur had to consciously make sure that he wasn't staring at her too intently. He was confused by her, if he was honest.

Arthur looked at the Departures board but not intently studying it. "You're that way," she said, pointing behind her. "I'm over there," she went on, gesturing behind him.

"I guess this is where we part ways then."

"I guess so."

There was a bit of a bustle when Arthur realized that Ariadne had gone in for a hug and Ariadne realized that Arthur had put his hand out to shake. Maybe it was because he was taller or because he has one of those commanding presences, but his gesture won out. She bit her bottom lip to hide her chagrin.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I'm not one for hugging."

She took his hand and shook it. "It's perfectly fine," she said as their hands let go. "It was worth a shot."

It was the only acknowledgement of that moment, and as he continued in the straight line towards his gate, he looked back at her to catch her shooting a sly smirk right at him.

* * *

Ariadne lay flat on her back atop her pillow top mattress, the only extravagance, past her tuition, that she allowed herself after the Fischer job. She thought it horrendously appropriate since she did the entire job sleeping.

She stares at the ceiling. The night before her flight to Australia for the Fischer job, she fell back upon her old mattress and studied the cracked ceiling, enjoying the simple, plaster carvings. She didn't understand what she was about to take on, and yet, she also was anticipating being done with it. She knew that the team needed her, though Arthur and Yusuf seemed adamant that a wrench really wasn't the best thing to throw in so last minute. Especially if that wrench was a newbie architect who never performed an extraction, let alone, shot a gun.

It was Eames who stood up for her. He backed Cobb's decision to bring her in, and Saito was just as vocal, even offering to pay for her ticket returning to Paris. In the end, everyone stood by Cobb, erratic and last-minute her addition might have seemed, and they all sat in their seats to Australia silently fuming but professional.

And all she could think about was what would happen when it was all done. She played out the scenarios in her head. If they were successful, she'd be part of something legendary. If they failed…well, her presences may or may not be a factor in that.

She seems to always look past everything, for the next project or the next inspiration. Her mother calls her impatient because of it. She always looks forward to the "post" of anything, from school to that job to that building to even today.

She's graduating today. The silly mortarboard and gown hang on the wooden chair near her door. Sensible black dress shoes prop next to it. She wonders if Rebecca will finally tell Louis about her real feelings at one of the many bars they'll visit. She wonders if her parents will want a tour the next day or if she should let them enjoy Paris as a couple. She wonders what her other classmates plan to do after they graduate, because she's not certain what will do anyway.

She tosses her arm above her head and looks at the ceiling. "I'm graduating today," she tells her ceiling fan. It waves back lazily, like it did that night, only then she said, "I'm going to Australia today." Her fan hardly gives a range of responses.

That seemed a damn long time ago.

It's not immediate, the phone ring. She's actually watching her fan blades turn for about fifteen minutes before it sounds. "Hallo?" She says with her best accent, expecting it to be Colette with demands as to why she isn't at the auditorium.

There's laughter on the phone. It's the deep bass of a man's laugh rather than the trill of her French friend's.

"Hello?" she asks, adjusting her accent. "Qui est ce?" She looks at her phone screen to answer her own question. "Arthur?" She hadn't seen him since they had dinner a month ago. Her heart immediately went faster, she looked around her apartment in suspicion. Her training kicking in immediately. "Is everything okay?"

"Ariadne?" the voice asks amidst a few dying chuckles. "I'm sorry. Yes, everything's fine. I didn't mean to worry you."

"I'm sorry," she goes on quickly. "I thought that—"

"Your accent—," he starts to say.

"That's not fair Arthur."

"—I just wanted to wish you a happy commencement," he quickly amends, and Ariadne remembers telling him about her soon-to-be graduation during the dessert course. How pleasant Arthur was about it, how positive he was about her prospects, and how he said he would try to see her again before it happened. But that was a month ago, and she gave up on any hope of that a long while ago.

"Thank you." She grips the mobile to her ear tightly. She waits for him to add more. He waits for her to say something. The sudden stillness is only commented on by an odd look of hers towards the receiver and a sideways glance to the floor by him.

"Wow," he says, breaking it. "I really feel like I should say something a little more peppier."

"Oh," she shakes her head. She realizes her grip. "Please do not quote Robert Frost to me. I don't think I can stand another Frost quotation. Even Seuss actually, despite my emotional attachment from youth."

"Well, you do got brains in your head and toes in your shoes—"

"Jokes on you Arthur," she dismisses. "I'm barefoot right now." On her end, she raises her legs to the ceiling, wiggling each piggy from the one that headed to the market to the one who cried all the way home. Her fan waves back.

He holds the receiver as he walks over towards the long window of his hotel room. From this floor, he has a remarkable view of the London Eye. The ever-grey skies dimming into darkness. "Always keeping us guessing."

"I try to keep the spontaneity alive in the relationship," she replies smugly, dropping her legs back onto the mattress. "Forgive my asking, but where are you exactly?"

He tells her.

"More work?" she guesses.

"Same old Arthur," Arthur confirms vaguely.

"Well, if you're free in five hours, there should be some pretty amazing bar hopping tonight, especially by your newly graduated friend. You should make it if you take a train," she takes her face away from her mobile to look at the screen, "now or so."

Arthur turns away from his window. He faces his made bed and his lamp stand. "As tempting as that sounds, I'm going to have to pass." A PASIV case sits on top of the goose down.

Ariadne looks at the clock on her phone again, curses, then apologizes quickly. "As tempting as it is to convince you that you should come, I've got to commence towards my commencement," she says. "My mom and dad would be pretty upset if they notice that I'm not walking." As she speaks, she's already on her feet. She shucks her sweat pants and tank top and haphazardly slips her arms through the straps of her black dress. All the while, she holds the phone with her shoulder, her hand, then the other. She is in constant contact.

"Well don't let me stop you." He hears the rustle of clothing and guesses at what she's doing.

"Never." She smiles. She looks in the mirror at her quickly thrown together presentation then shrugs before walking towards her door to grab her cap and gown. "I'll see you later Stick-in-the-Mud."

"I thought you were leaving?"

She slips on one shoe then the other, hoping on one leg, then switching. "Commencing," she corrects, standing on both feet firmly, before hanging up.

* * *

They never talk about it. She doesn't point out that it was a certain point man's fly away suggestion, and he doesn't say that it was a small architect who leaned in first.

* * *

Arthur is busy reading the postcard when Eames makes a grab for it.

"And what—," Eames begins, the card secure in his hands, the element of surprise on his side, as he takes the seat at the table with Arthur, "—is this Artie?"

"It's nothing," Arthur replies, allowing Eames to read it. He's read most of it, and only trying to get it back will egg the Englishman further. "It's a postcard from Ariadne."

Eames flips the card to the shiny picture of a Parisian evening. The Eiffel Tower with its champagne lights dominates the landscape. "I didn't realize you two were still in contact," he says, his jocular tone suddenly serious as he reads it over. Arthur doesn't stop him. One could hardly fit anything onto a postcard, and Ariadne, despite her small handwriting, barely got over the fact that one could hardly write anything on a postcard before she found herself two line spaces till the end. It reminded him of her, from the handwriting to the message.

Arthur shrugs, watching Eames carefully. "We've kept in touch."

Eames gives him a condescending inclination of his head. "I've gathered," he says, and there's a note in his voice that irks Arthur.

He brushes this comment off as Eames continues to read. He's not sure why it irks him, though it might be because the Englishman is generally irksome. Or maybe it's because he's not exactly sure why he started it.

He excuses it with the fact that she was one of the only people he knew who stayed in place and who knew of his work enough to understand, and he thought that she would appreciate the traditional sentiment of it. He's not sure what makes him feel better. But he started sending these cards, randomly, not often, though often enough.

They were curt, hardly a message really—the cards didn't allow room for anything else—and they didn't provide room for a return address, though Arthur was sure he wouldn't be in the same place had she tried to reach him. He would just send them out, not knowing if she was getting them or if she was even reading them.

There was something old world romantic about buying stamps and finding a mail box, using your own handwriting to write out a missive, and with all the travel he's done, he's never really had the opportunity to use the tourist gift shops where these postcards were. As annoyingly kitschy they were, he liked looking at the glossy photos on the spinning racks, choosing one just to send out. It was a classic notion he wasn't sure people kept up anymore.

Ariadne actually wasn't his first target. He sent a few to James and Philippa, before it even occurred to him to send one to her. He remembers seeing the photo and automatically thinking of her, bringing her to the forefront of his thoughts as if he should've been reminded all along.

Eames sighs dramatically. "Aw Artie."

"What now?" Arthur has to bite down his animosity, but he sees Eames alight with the small rile.

"I'm a little disappointed that she doesn't sign her name with a little heart," Eames admits, displaying the card right before his face with both hands like a proud five-year-old with hand painted art. The Eiffel Tower faces Arthur.

"Oh grow up Mr. Eames." He makes a snatch at the forger's face, but he's too slow. Eames laughs and frisbees the card over to him. It lands on the desk.

"You probably shouldn't resort to snail mail," he says, getting up from his seat, already back in business. "Makes it easier for people to track you."

"It's actually harder than an e-mail," Arthur retorts, reaching to slide the postcard across the desk. "It's probably safer," he adds, flipping the card between his forefinger and middle as he turns into his desk.

He misses the look Eames gives him as he starts to read the postcard again. "If you say so Arthur," he says, leaving the room.

* * *

Ariadne finds an internship at a respectable architecture firm in the city. Her references were enough to get her good work, but she is not at the level to head her own project yet. Her supervisor said that if she kept up the quality of design she has been giving, they could consider her shadowing the leader of one of the smaller restructures in the Fall. She bides her time. She draws in her spare breaks. She dreams at home.

She doesn't hear from Cobb or Eames or Yusuf or Arthur.

It's only when she sits down to think about it does she realize that he never responded to her postcard. She wonders if he got it. Indirectly, she hears from Cobb who told Miles to tell her that he sent the postcard through a small shipment. He said he put it in a PASIV case meant for Arthur. She wonders if she crossed a line somehow in responding.

But it never is a guarantee, those postcards. He clearly doesn't expect anything. They lack a return address or prompts or questions to create conversation. She just didn't know what to make of the first few, thinking that they would stop eventually. They didn't. They come in at random from all over. Dubai. Quebec. Oslo. She wonders why he's traveling so much, but she remembers even recon work could be a day in one area and a hit would be in another.

She purchases an old world map at a used book shop to mark where they've come from, dotting destinations with a black sharpie, seeing his movement from Barcelona to Buenos Aires. She traces her finger across the rough paper from one dot to another, unsure if she got the order right.

Maddeningly, she can't get a hold of him to respond to his adventures. There's no return address, so she's a sitting duck, waiting. She expects them. She anticipates them. She hopes for them, and then is in denial about it all later when one appears in her mailbox. She still waits.

They're all over her apartment, propped up against books, walls, her mirror. She tacks a few up, sometimes with the messages facing outward. She enjoys having them. They make her feel important and grown-up, though she doesn't understand the point of it. Arthur doesn't say much in them, only what he sees in design or culture or a few snippets of thoughts before he runs out of room. He never crams his words. They are precise and efficient like his handwriting. So it's often two sentences before he signs off. _Best, Arthur_.

She wishes she could get a hold of him, so she writes a quick post card and asks Miles to somehow get it to him. She feels silly that her message is about the lack of space but decides it's probably best. Postcards are immensely public in how they lack envelopes, though she's sure Miles and Cobb will respect her privacy. The request, though, is shocking she knows, and Miles has a small smile when she asks him the favor.

She is a bit embarrassed at how excited she was to have that last letter from Arthur. It's on a small card with a photo of a row of colorfully painted buildings. It discusses the scenery of Buenos Aires and the people. She knows he was careful not to talk about his work, but she catches the vague mention of Eames ("companions always condescendingly calling me 'darling'"). She wishes she could send a postcard back, though unsure of how much she would be allowed to ask, unsure of what she should share. Despite being in Paris, her life seems relatively uneventful than what she is sure he is experiencing. She eats breakfast at the same café and cooks at home. She gets drunk on the weekends. She gets to bed by eleven. She feels too responsible for her own good sometimes.

It's been three weeks since the last postcard, a separation longer than any between the letters. So she tells herself that the correspondence—can she call it that if there was no real exchange of letters?—is over, and she quickly comes to terms with it as she slices a zucchini and drinks a bottle of beer in preparation for dinner. One of the postcards sits propped on the windowsill above the sink.

It's late at night, when she gets a text. She digs under her pillow for her mobile still in a daze. It's an unknown number, but it's blocked anyway. It reads just as brief as one of those letters.

_In the city for two weeks. Free? –A_

* * *

It was during the preparation for the Fischer job that they found the café. It was only a couple of blocks away from the old warehouse they used. Once, when Arthur considered shooting Mr. Eames in the foot and Mr. Eames was only too glad to egg him, Ariadne dragged him out for lunch, where she eased him with baguettes and coffee until he was too full to be angry. They visited a couple of times after that with Yusuf, Dom, and even Eames. It got to the point during their months of prep that they were regulars and the head waiter, whose shift coincided with the times they always came in, knew them by their faces. It was only when Arthur pointed out how playing under the radar did not, in fact, include being regulars that they stopped going, and they dearly missed the croissants and croque monsieurs that really didn't taste the same anywhere else.

They agree to meet there as part of neutral territory and for old time's sake.

She takes the seat across from him before he even realizes that she's there.

"Hey," he greets with a smile.

"Hello," she breathes. She points at his water. "Can I have some?" He gestures, though she doesn't wait for it. "Thank you." She gulps it down. "I've been running around the city all morning," she explains airily, taking more water.

Arthur just watches her. He takes in her jeans and her usual scarf. But there's a pressed quality to her that wasn't there before. Her shoes look relatively new, not as scuffed. Her jacket is buttery leather. Her face looks more relaxed too, despite her complaints. Her hair is pulled back, away from her face.

And yet, she looks different. She seems too put together, almost unlike herself. He says so.

She shrugs. "It's all part of the job," she replies, placing his glass back down.

"You're part of a firm?"

"Internship. Miles arranged it for me," she explains with a nod. "After I graduated, I actually had no certain plans for anything. I thought—" she hesitates, but Arthur's look of expectation assures her. "I thought I'd go back into dreamscapes." The admittance is so frank she feels childlike in saying it. A need to apologize or justify her statement builds up in her mind, but she understands that Arthur knows the whole story. He knows the promise Cobb made. He also knows that Cobb is a damned liar when he thinks he is doing best for those he likes best.

"I'll talk to Dom," Arthur assures her.

"It's not necessary," she stops him. "I've called him already, argued with him already. He won't budge. Says that my talents are better for the real world."

Arthur levels a look at her. "He's right."

She twiddles with the napkin on the table. "Yeah?" She's not bashful about it. She doesn't mean for him to agree or build upon it. He can tell that she's hedging for something.

"But?" He prods.

Ariadne smiles a little wanly to herself, looking at her fingers. "But it's just not enough."

"It's pure creation," he finishes, recalling her return to the warehouse.

She only replies with a sly look and signals the waiter.

* * *

They go months without speaking. No words are needed. The silence is comfortable rather than worrisome. Arthur travels. Ariadne works.

Arthur wonders, when he has to lie low between jobs, if he should do it in Paris. Ariadne thinks she sees the back of a familiar head. It's the right height and hair color, but it's not him.

No postcards are sent.

* * *

They're friends or so she explains when Rebecca comes into her apartment and finds a small wooden turtle on Ariadne's counter. "Mexico" is written on its colorful shell in swift strokes like graffiti. She knocks the spoon-shaped head and it bobs idly.

"Cute," she deems it, watching the small wooden amphibian continue to nod. "Where's it from?"

"Mexico," Ariadne calls out from her room. Her door stays slightly ajar as she changes her t-shirt and finds a clean scarf. She discards clothing with a careless toss in wayward directions. Fabric litters her floor and bed. She goes to bed with those clothes still on her covers.

"Yes," Rebecca says with a huff. "And so his shell says, but who do you know in Mexico?" Rebecca has a wonderful way of phrasing things to sound like ill compliments.

Ariadne walks into the kitchen pulling on a light coat. "Why can't I know people in Mexico?" She lifts her hair out of her collar.

Rebecca flicks the turtle's head again. "It's that kid Arthur isn't it? The one who sends you all those postcards?" She points at one nearby, and Ariadne regrets having them all over her apartment.

Ariadne shuts off the lights around them, purposefully leaving the television set last. "Yeah," she replies, confused, though already understanding where Rebecca's comment will lead. "He was there this past March."

Rebecca doesn't say anything. "It's very nice of him to send you a turtle," she says simply, and Ariadne knows exactly where Rebecca's mind headed.

"You sent me that mask when you vacationed in Venice," Ariadne points out. "There's nothing weird about getting souvenirs for other people."

"I didn't say there was," Rebecca replies primly. She grabs her clutch off the counter and leads the way to the door. "Are you ready to go yet?"

And Ariadne has to roll her eyes at the trap she just walked in.

* * *

"Arthur and Ariadne sitting in a tree," Eames sang happily, spinning in his seat. The warehouse windows tinted champagne yellow. It was the end of the day and Dom and Yusuf were already off in a rogue area of the shop, testing out new compounds. They started to do this often, being very secretive about what exactly they were studying, though Ariadne started to have her suspicions.

It was times like these where Eames was at his most obnoxious. Back from his stint in the States following Browning, he was restless and unhelpful. His favorite hobby was watching Yusuf test the compounds on Arthur, and when Arthur started to threaten bodily harm on him, it was Ariadne's job to drag the forger away and distract him with photos and small talk.

She was starting to pull her hair up, curling a pencil into the center to keep it in place. "Oh very mature Eames," Ariadne accused with a laugh. She dropped her arms and gestured towards the worktable. "Do you want to go over your level again?"

He shook his head. Used to this response when it came to work, she leaned her hip against the table, crossing her arms across her chest. "Are we going to do any work today?" she questioned with an arched brow.

"Not likely, no." He spun in his chair once more, before stopping suddenly to face her. "But seriously darling," he began. "Where do you two sneak off to? Every time I turn my back, you pair have vanished."

She laughed. "What are you talking about?"

Eames shrugged and continued spinning.

She thought about the handful of times she headed out with Arthur, either to learn more about mazes, to study architecture, or even to just go out. She liked taking breaks; her mind needed bigger spaces. She needed distance from the worktable sometimes, and her mind was always brimming with questions. Questions she always peppered Arthur with, who was patient to explain everything, even discuss the logistics, the architecture, and her own ideas to experiment with. And it became a habit of hers to simply up and grab the point man, taking him away from his work, and head out to Paris, just to walk. She'd point at certain areas with a story of her own, and he'd listen patiently, amused sometimes, until she finally came out with why they were there in the first place, her mind properly comfortable, the weight coaxed out.

Ariadne didn't realize that she was doing that so often, though clearly the forger noticed. She wondered if anyone else suspected similar nefarious actions between her and the point man. She wondered how disappointed they'd be if they knew she was boring him with stories and badgering him with questions. "You've caught us Eames," she said with a sigh, slumping her shoulders. Eames didn't even honor her with stopping his rotation. "We do the quick and nasty in the broom closet."

Eames was looking towards the ceiling now. "Thought so. Though—" here he stopped to look at her. "I can't imagine dear Arthur ever doing anything involving the word nasty in a broom cupboard."

"That's the best place!" Ariadne said, quickly dissolving into laughter, which Eames picked it up.

Arthur came up to the pair. He stopped right in front of Ariadne. "Ready to go?" he asked sharply with a look at Eames. Their laughter faded out quickly.

"I just need to grab my coat," she said, coughing. She reached over the forger to grab the garment, and Eames made a lewd gesture with his hands. Ariadne scowled and made certain the sleeve of her jacket smacked him in the face.

She looked back at him to see the cocky expression replaced with incredulity.

"So who's leading this time?" Ariadne asked. It was a question that usually opened their walks, like a sort of tradition. Arthur replied he didn't care either way.

Ariadne nodded, starting to walk off, aware of the forger still listening. "Sounds good," she said, before adding, "the safe word's 'foliage' though," as if it were an afterthought.

Eames could hear Arthur stop in his tracks, as he demanded, "What?" before the forger promptly burst into laughter.

* * *

"You kept these?"

Ariadne feels herself blush as Arthur walks around her apartment, looking from tacked postcards to tacked postcards. He makes his way towards her bookshelf, where she propped a few up. Now he's looking at the kitchen where some sit on her windowsill above the sink.

Months of disappearance and he shows up on her doorstep bearing take out and assumption.

"I could've been headed out," she points out as she let him in, still dressed in sweats and an old, baggy shirt. He saunters in knowingly smug, a bag of delicious smells perched on his forearm.

"You also could've been already out," he replies easily, making his way towards her kitchen counter. He's only been there once before, during the Fischer job. The night before they headed to Australia. He was trying to talk her out of it.

"Presumptive ass," she mutters, heading to her room.

"I heard that."

"You were meant to!" She storms, walking down the hall to put on a bra. She gives herself a once over in the mirror, before realizing what she's doing. "Did it ever occur to you that most people would call or maybe message or send a pigeon if one were to call?" She asks, pulling her hair out of its messy pony tail before she stops herself. She doesn't care. She doesn't.

"I'm sorry, I left my manners back in another time zone," he answers loudly back. She hears him walk around, opening drawers and rattling silverware, before— "you kept these?"

The postcards. They're everywhere, she realizes, and she starts to mentally picture her apartment, figuring out where postcards are, where she carelessly, purposefully placed them in a pique of sentimentality.

She looks at herself in the mirror before heading out. "Yeah," she forces herself to say casually. "Why not?"

Arthur stands at the fridge where a group of four shares the Shakespeare magnet, each hanging by a corner. Hearing her enter, he turns to her, a spoon in his hand. Apparently he found her flatware. "I'm glad you got them."

"I'm glad you sent them."

"Good."

"Good."

She walks over to the kitchenette and pulls out a few plates from a cabinet. "So what did you get?" She asks, handing him a plate.

* * *

She has to learn patience. The team doing the renovations to the old pre-war building come upon mold, dead foundation, unrecorded renovations, and so much more that at times Ariadne gets fed up with the project. She's spent so much time working on the structure, that she wants to see it. She wants to see the finished product and touch it and claim it.

It's nothing like dreams. In dreams, she acts like a child, stacking her blocks, before knocking them down until she's happy with the outcome, over and over again.

Here, one false move, and there's a leak that can stop production for two weeks until it's resolved.

It's nothing like dreams. Here she doesn't have that dread of waking up.

* * *

**A/N:** More to come soon. Again, I just wanted to say that this is really experimental, and we'll just see what happens. Anyway, thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"Who's leading?"

"You mean you have no idea where we're going?"

It was Ariadne's idea to take Arthur around the sights of Paris on this particular leave of absence. There's a slump in between jobs and another midnight text informing her of his arrival. In passing during one of their conversations, he mentioned how he had yet to see the Mona Lisa in person and had yet to see Paris from the Eiffel Tower, two tragedies Ariadne, a Parisian dweller, could not have.

"An idea is such a provocative word." Ariadne chews over her speech carefully, thoughtfully. "It's more of—"

"You have no clue where we're going do you?" Arthur interrupts. His voice is deadpan, and Ariadne looks up at him a little sheepishly. "I could've finished my coffee."

She winces, thinking of how quickly they got up from their table, how Arthur took a quick slosh of his cup before getting up after her. "I know! I know. We're going somewhere." She looks around the block. "It's not like I don't know where we're going," she thinks aloud. It's a rather sunny day, and Parisians, taking advantage of the weather and clear skies after a week of rain, have come out in droves. Sitting near fountains, laughing in front of cafes, walking along the sidewalks. Ariadne stops to rifle through her leather shoulder bag, searching for the itinerary she printed out last night. Though, she will admit, it is a rather loose plan, something she decides she won't tell the anal point man.

"Of course it's not like we're not going somewhere," Arthur replies, following her lead. She senses his annoyance at leaving a perfectly lovely coffee at their table. "It's Paris. We're bound to end up somewhere." It's said so casually, that comment. Arthur even shoves his arms in his pockets as he looks around the blocks for more of a direction. "What?" he asks, probably feeling her stare on him too long.

"You sound like Dr. Seuss," she muses, holding the paper between two hands. "Or Norton Juster."

Arthur shrugs, but from his smile, she can see that he too was a fan of the fantastical world of Dictionapolis. "At least Milo and Tock had some direction." He looks both ways before crossing the street. "Eiffel Tower first or the Louvre?" he calls after her.

Ariadne looks both ways before following him. "Neither actually."

He stops once he reaches the sidewalk. "Really? After that small melt down you had when you realized that I'm still an Eiffel virgin?"

Ariadne looks him up and down. "Really," she asserts. "I have a plan."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," she continues, slightly offended. "You're such a rookie at playing tourist. We need to take it slow before you head over to the crazier sites. Only an experienced tourist can handle that."

Arthur smiles. "Oh I see. Well, in that case, I'm not sure if I can handle it."

She grabs his hand, shoving her list into her purse. "Come along virgin, I'll take it slow."

* * *

"I think I want a dramatic death."

"This isn't Shakespeare, love." There was a sigh and the sound of a gun cocking.

Ariadne peeped open her eyes and looked at the forger aiming a gun right at her face. "Can't we at least talk about this?" she asked, a little too desperately. "Or can I have another second?"

"Ariadne," an impatient voice piped up. "Will you just die already?"

Eames unwillingly laughed, dropping his arm to his side. They looked at Arthur and Cobb standing to the sides. The extractor looked extremely amused as the point man scowled.

"Did I ever thank you for bringing me into such a welcoming team Cobb?" Ariadne asked saccharinely. "I feel like I'm in such a safe environment. Dare I say," she looked at Arthur, "even loved?"

Cobb smiles. "You really need to give her more time," he says to the well-dressed man next to him. "Dying is hard, especially when she knows it's coming."

"If she wastes any more time, the clock will run out and the exercise is pretty much moot," Arthur pointed out, ignoring his friend. Though his demeanor was cool, his voice was raised and his annoyance easily readable from his impatient stance.

"To be fair Arthur," Eames spoke up, gesturing with the gun nonchalantly. "She is still a virgin to our ways. Dying on purpose has more psychological parameters she can't just let go of."

"Well she's going to need to assimilate. We don't have that much time to be training rookies."

Ariadne started a rejoinder but was quelled by a leveling look from Dom. "She needs to learn everything fully and on her own terms or it's not a proper lesson, Arthur." He spoke reasonably and calmly. "We need her to understand, so we're all on the same level. We're a team, and despite what you think, she is fully capable of doing this."

"Yeah," Arthur allowed, "But she shouldn't be training as if she's going in the field."

"She also can't let go of her presence, and she would appreciate it if you didn't speak as if she weren't here."

Arthur turned to look at her. Despite his firm bravado and business sense, there was a sense of humor in how he studied her from her feet to her face. "That can easily be remedied." His eyes gestured towards Eames, who was looking on with that constant amusement. He held the gun up prettily, gesturing like he worked for Wheel of Fortune.

"Why is this necessary again?"

"It's all part of your training Ariadne," Cobb explained. "Usually we'd want the timer to just end, but sometimes it will be necessary for us to kill each other."

"Right."

"We can always make it a dramatic one if that will help you," Eames offered, returning to her previous suggestion.

"Though death by spear, while dramatic, is hardly something you should experience," Arthur added.

Eames looked at Arthur with something akin to respect. Ariadne couldn't hold in a giggle. "Really? When were you killed by a spear?"

"Shouldn't we get back to the matter at hand?" Cobb announced. He kept looking at the sky as if preparing for their time to be over. "Ariadne? Are you ready?"

She looked at Eames. "I think so."

"It's really not that bad," Eames said helpfully, cocking the gun.

"Okay."

"Would you like me to count it down for you?" He asked, leveling it in his hand.

"No."

"Good."

She jolted out of her seat. The feeling was similar to dreams where she slipped on a banana or lost her footing on some ice. She felt her legs give way into a kick and she opened her eyes to see a concerned looking Yusuf and Arthur staring at her as she cried out, then immediately bit her lip to stifle herself. It was the searing pain. It was only for a second—that blow to her abdomen—but the sting of it lingered. She could still feel it—that searing rip of pain as a bullet penetrates skin—and she held her hand to her stomach as if to wipe away the memory.

"How was it?" Yusuf asked, bending onto her level to unhook her arm.

Ariadne was trying to stop her labored breathing, consciously gulping air. "Fine. Just fine."

"You need to focus elsewhere," he advised. Gently, he placed his hand in hers and she squeezed it out of reflex. "The pain is all in your mind. You need to forget it." His tone was low and comfortingly calm. He gave her a small smile. "Better?"

"Elsewhere," she repeated through heavy inhalations. "Right." Her heart still raced and she still had to bite her lip to stop herself from yelling at the pain. It was all in her head, she kept telling herself. She tried to focus elsewhere. She gripped Yusuf tightly. "Is it always going to be like this?"

"No." The two looked over at Arthur. "Lucky for you," Arthur said, sitting up in his metal lawn chair. He got up quickly and made his way to her, grasping her wrist and sliding out the needle and unlatching the bracelet. "You're not going into the field."

"In the meantime," Yusuf said from her other side. "Think of bunnies and unicorns."

* * *

They stand before a large pink tombstone with a carved angel. The stone itself is very modern in design, hard lines cleanly cut. The choice of stone is a breath of fresh air in the cemetery, but what's more eye catching is the amount of lips imprinted. Thousands of lipstick kisses dot the monument from top to the bottom, commemorating Oscar Wilde. People also left memorabilia along the foot, random things from books to toys. Arthur studies a pink laffy taffy rapper weighted down by a smatter of pebbles. He focuses on it to read the riddle and attempts to find its deeper relationship with the writer.

"Isn't it amazing?" Ariadne asks, rounding the corner from the other side. A few tourists make their way over to the large monument, but the cemetery is relatively peaceful. Walking through was actually very peaceful, despite the wayward cobblestones and the confusion of the cemetery map. Having no definite plan on what they wanted to see, their path through the grave stones and markers seems unnecessarily round about, and Arthur knows that had he been planning, most of their route would have been judged in order to avoid retracing steps.

Ariadne only had the place in mind, and despite having already been here before, the place is too big and her past experiences were ones where she got lost. They saw Abelard's final resting place with his lover. They saw Collette's stone black tomb. They visited Jim Morrison, following the familiar songs towards his tombstone, hidden and behind. A couple of teenagers stood nearby with a cassette player.

"Can you imagine how many people have left things? Or who have kissed this?" Ariadne asks beside him, stooping to read an inscription on a left behind Moleskin.

"I worry for their health," Arthur replies, studying the wall better. Layers upon layers of lips are on the stone in varying shades of pink and red.

They stand side by side, studying it when Ariadne announces that she wants to leave her lips too.

"What? That seems unhygienic."

Her head is already buried in her purse, one hand holding the flap open while the other digs through what sounds to be a mess of coins, paper, and some rather heavy metal objects. "I had a red lipstick in here," she says to herself seconds before producing it proudly.

"I strongly advise against this."

"Spoilsport," she says, tracing her lips heavily. She smacks them together a couple of times before facing him for approval.

"Perfect. This image will be the last one I remember of you healthy."

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up Arthur." Looking at the monument before her, she inspects the prints. "Where should I do it?"

Arthur gives the stone a good once over before pointing at a spot at about his eye level. "This seems the cleanest," he explains.

She looks both ways as if assessing a situation. Deciding that the close is clear, she takes a timid step on the ledge at her feet, careful not to rattle the tributes and gifts. She places two hands on rock before her to steady herself and leans forward, pressing her lips gently on the spot Arthur directed. She smiles as she looks at her mark, focusing on her lips until she's dizzy. She can't discern her lips from anyone's anymore. The color immediately soaks into the granite, dulling the marks before hers.

She points this out to Arthur, turning to him.

"People," he says, and she panics, slipping her foot back automatically but forgetting the ledge. She lets out a slight gasp as her center of gravity wavers backward, and she's vaguely aware of how close the stone tombstones are behind her.

But Arthur's steady hands grip her waist. He says something snark about her looking like a seal on ice, and she laughs as he places her onto steady ground rather easily, almost as if she weighed nothing at all.

* * *

It was a late night at the warehouse. One of the nights where Ariadne, charged with an idea, continued to sketch well past sunset and dinner time and general working hours. Outside, the busy Parisian atmosphere turned from hurried cars and the buzz of people nearby to the thump of clubs and bars inviting patrons to finally silence, apart from the spare taxi going down the deserted street.

It was eerily quiet and tense in the workshop now, and she waved Yusuf away hours ago.

"Ariadne?"

The voice scared her shitless, and despite the earbuds tucked in, the low volume allowed the interruption quite clearly, as if he were right beside her.

She turned around, plucking out her headphones. "Arthur?" She placed her iPod onto her desk. "What are you doing here? I thought everyone already left."

She can't read his expression as his eyes assessed the sketchbook, the scattered rulers, and her headphones. They lingered on her graphite stained hand. A bit embarrassed, she curled her fingers into a fist to hid them. "Precisely," he said, a little coldly she noted. "I was locking up when I heard you back here." He made his way from the little entrance of her corner—she purposefully blocked off her little den with a chalkboard of blue prints and a small shelf of supplies. "I wouldn't want you to be locked in here for the night."

Ariadne stretched her hand out to light her iPod. It was three in the morning, almost four. "I think I already have," she joked, though he didn't seem amused.

"Come on." He gestured with his arm, which held his trench coat. His tone was blunt and it sounded like a command rather than an act of concern. "I'll walk you home."

That was the last thing she wanted actually. She didn't understand, but recently, Arthur was beginning to be more withdrawn from her. The deeper they got into the plan, the more practice they had over the layers, and the time they spent with each other, somehow put him on edge. She couldn't pin point exactly when they stopped taking walks or when she stopped going to him for questions, but ever since her dying practice with Eames and Cobb, she felt his disapproval of her. Every time she made a suggestion or when he caught her watching Cobb and Yusuf late one night, he had this look of pure disregard, as if she was weighed and found wanting.

Now in the presence of others, he hid it well, talking to Cobb and Yusuf and taking Eames' playing quite naturally. Saito too had a way of speaking to Arthur that brought out a lighter side to him that she remembered getting along with so well, but only when they would be by themselves or somehow alone by chance would she catch that damnable assessing look on his face, that hard stare searching her up and down. She felt it was unfair and undeserving, especially with the hours she had put in and progress she'd made and the effort she had put.

So damn Arthur and his sudden judgment. She didn't need him to walk her home.

"Sure. Thanks."

Damn. She didn't mean to say that.

She started to gather her things into her leather shoulder bag, acutely aware of Arthur waiting. She threw back a few careless apologies as she went from shelf to shelf to look for her carrier mug or her keys. Consciously, she felt Arthur frown as she had to shuffle around the small space to gather everything.

"Why are you here late anyway?" she asked, bunching up a handful of pencils on the desk. The need to speak bit at her shoulders, pushing her to break whatever tension Arthur introduced into her small space.

"Recon work is a bit difficult when you're subject is on a different time zone." It wasn't terse, but it was so simple, it was annoying to the point, breaking any welcome for small talk, she knew.

"Oh," she said.

The last time she spoke to Arthur alone was on accident. Yusuf, running last minute tests on the sedatives, had pushed Arthur off the chair per usual, but Arthur's bodily reflex jolted the seat two inches away from the mattress, meaning that once his side landed, the mattress slid a few more inches from under him.

While Yusuf went in search for a first aid kit, Ariadne cleaned a pretty nasty gash on his elbow with a small bottle of alcohol and a handkerchief. They didn't say anything, except for the slight winces from the point man, and the small murmurs of apologies from the architect.

Since then, they did their best to avoid one another's presence alone.

"You ready?"

She nodded, looking round the small area before spotting her scarf lying near her chair. She made a quick grab at it, tossing it round her neck, before shutting off the desk lamp nearby, only to realize too late that it was one of the only lights left on in the workshop.

"D'oh."

She heard the rush of fabric, probably Arthur dropping his coat, then a step in her direction. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just ran into a chair." She heard him laugh. "A really sturdy, wooden one."

He winced. "I should've warned you."

"That—" She took in a deep breath. "—would've been lovely."

"Do you need a second?"

She gripped her elbow and her side. "Maybe five?"

They stood for a moment in stark silencing, allowing their eyes adjust.

"Are you okay now?" he asked after a few moments.

"Yeah. Fine." She bent her arm a couple of times to dull the spring of pain, then she ran her hand down the leather strap on her shoulder, assuring herself of the weight. Blinking a few times, her world came into better focus. She looked up to see Arthur watching her, filtered grey and dark.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much."

"Let's go."

He lead the way through her make shift gate and towards the main entrance. Their feet were the only sounds along the cement floor. It made the entire place creepier and desolate than she considered. She had experienced so much in this tiny little warehouse: cathedrals from scratch, staircases with no end, stadiums and coliseums of crowds, even her childhood home, her aunt's house on the beach, and a few dream vacations as well. It was odd to think of the amount of time spent within the warehouse and yet not exactly.

"You really shouldn't let your work take over," he said out of nowhere. His feet continued to clop along the floor as he led her past Yusuf's station. He didn't even turn around, and Ariadne had to take a second to realize that he was addressing her.

"I'm not," she replied.

"No," he said with what she knew would be an eye roll. "Because staying up late to finish a design isn't doing just that."

"I've got it under control Arthur."

He stopped to face her. They were near the front of the workshop, standing near the lawn chairs, now, and the high windows, though covered in sun-stained newspapers, allowed in some vague light from the outside. "Yeah?" he countered, looking her straight on. "Because I question that sometimes."

"Why don't you trust me?"

The words were caffeine to the system, and Arthur looked surprised at either the question or her. If she were a lesser person, she might swallow them back, immediately apologizing and leaving before Arthur could recuperate. But as it was, Ariadne was never one to back down.

"I trust you." He replied like clock, stiff and automatic like he was trying to quell her.

"No," she said. "You trusted me before everything started. You were fine introducing me to everything before, but now you're being rude and you're not even hiding it."

She watched him waver from uncertainty before inevitably resolving to his comment. "You're new at this."

She didn't say anything.

"You are. Maybe not in scope or imagination or even learning, but do you realize what you've gotten yourself into? And I don't mean just shared dreaming but this lifestyle? I can see it affecting you with the hours you put in and the sheer abuse of your power when we go under.

It's damn magnificent, don't get me wrong, but you're way in over your head. What we're going to do—what we _plan_ to do isn't something that even a seasoned professional can do. Failure is so easily achieved by even the greatest extractors. Dom maybe one of the most capable people to do it, but he's not one of the most level minded at the moment.

"I know that Arthur, give me some credit."

She could see he disliked being interrupted. "Yes, but you think you can fix it."

Ariadne didn't reply.

"Ariadne, can't you see what you're getting yourself into? Don't you understand what you've agreed to do?"

She nodded.

"But you're still going through with it?"

She nodded again. "I appreciate your concern Arthur, I really do, but I can handle myself."

"I know."

"And worrying about me isn't going to help the team. It holds us back, if anything. We need to be worrying about Cobb."

He nodded in agreement, and Ariadne started to walk forward.

"Are we good?"

"We're good."

She took a few steps in front of him. "Come on then."

Arthur didn't move. "Ariadne?"

She turned.

"I just wanted you to know," he said, almost sheepishly. "I wanted you to know that I do trust you."

"I trust you too," she replied. She pulled her bag tighter up her arm. "Come on, walk me home."

* * *

No stops since they started. Ariadne sees to checking and rechecking the records of the entire floor of the apartment building before ground officially broke three weeks ago, and she's happy to say that none of the problems discovered in the previous job are issues here. She makes sure to keep in constant contact with the contractor, the plumbers, and the manager at all times. She keeps an ear out for the supplies every day, and she learns a lot just by asking more questions.

They're just doing renovations, but she appreciates the work left before her. She enjoys studying their designs, what needs they tried to meet, and she tries to make her own mark onto it.

She feels good about being a step ahead. She feels like she bested the role.

* * *

They stand in a warehouse much like the one they used for the three months of preparation for the Fischer job. It's well lit by high windows plastered with yellowing newspapers and tinted butcher paper. The space is open with only a few tables organized for quasi-privacy, but generally, the set-up is open.

"Am I technically allowed to be looking at this?" Ariadne asks without looking up from a set of blue prints. She crouches over a large worktable with plans and models spread out. On the wall, two feet away, are snap shots of buildings and streets, seemingly organized. On the far right is a group of shots of mirrored skyscrapers and modern architecture. The center has a variety of streetscapes.

"Are you technically allowed to look at an illegal blueprint for a con job?" Arthur muses, purposefully perplexed in his choice of words.

"No," she huffs.

"Morals?" Arthur questions a few feet away from her. He leans on the table's edge against the wall. His body blocks a collage of photos of a very modern looking office. The large sheets of paper held out for her to study. "Because it's really no problem. I can—" He makes a motion to take it from her.

"No!" she curls the papers towards her chest, suddenly protective of them. "It's fine!"

He quirks a brow but doesn't move.

"It's just." She stops herself and slouches. She places each of the larger sheets back onto the worktable. Arthur notes how she traces a few of the lines of one of the plans, studying it as she talks to him. "I promised Dom." It's then when it clicks.

"Dom breaks promises all the time."

"True, but he came to visit Miles last week with James and Philippa."

Arthur nods in understanding. It's almost a joke this scenario. It's been played on him often enough, especially now that Dom has kids. "Let me guess, he guilted you into promising not to create anymore?" The hypocrisy of his friend is astounding. Cobb was the one, after all, who was game enough to encourage Ariadne to join this world. He knew the intoxicating nature of it better than anyone.

Ariadne nods sadly. Arthur sees her eyes waver towards the charcoal pencils sitting nearby. "And I would help. I would but being here and seeing this…" she fades out. She gives a little half-hearted shrug.

Cobb. That bastard. "Are you sure you don't want to give it a go for old time's sake?" he jokes.

"Are you tempting me Arthur?" she says all too readily.

It's at her tone that he realizes that he is. He very much is. "Aren't you asking me to ask you Ariadne?" he replies smoothly. Even he is unsure of whether this is a good idea or not, whether this is prudent of him. He sees that with a bit more prodding, she would. She really would. He would just have to ask. It's amusing. It's also a frightening sign.

"You're awful." She laughs. "I can see why they say you're the best point man there is."

Arthur makes his decision then. He wants her to have it, even if it may not be what's best for her. "Come on." He walks in the direction of the lounge chairs down the warehouse, and he smiles when he hears her own timid steps speed up to catch up with him.

* * *

"Why architecture?"

He watched her straighten at his voice. "Why conning?" she replied in what he assumed was a mockery of the tone he had just used. He took that as an invitation into her corner where her worktable was a mess of papers and sketches. A few models sat half built on the table lining the walls. Photos and scribbles tacked on the rough plaster of the walls. She even placed handy labels on top of the sections with each of the dreamer's names.

He looked at a ripped out ad of women in their bikinis that was taped under Eames' name and lifted an eyebrow in question.

"Eames is always helpful with ideas," she replied with a laugh. "He put a few in your section too." She gestured towards the middle of the wall bearing his name, and there in the center, next to a couple of tasteful photographs of modern architecture, were men in tight briefs and a few pictures of jugglers and tents.

"I'm not sure I understand the circus theme he wants so much," she said over his shoulder, still intent on her work.

Arthur studied them. "He knows my fear of clowns."

"Clowns?" He noted the small surprise in her voice. He challenged her with a blank look, and as intended, it confused her. "I'd figure they were above your attention," she explains.

He turned to face her. "Not when you're eight and your mom thinks it would be a good idea."

"Yeah." When he looked at her, she continued to explain. "I was seven."

He nodded along, "So why architecture?" He asked, bringing it back to his intention.

She had an unquestionable look on her face, like she was trying to puzzle him out. He could tell that she wasn't sure what to make of this rather aggressive questioning. "Stubborn aren't you?" He didn't make a move and neither did she. "I studied art history as my bachelors," she said with a roll of her eyes. "I was always more interested in the architecture." She paused, and Arthur got the sense that he was asking a question beyond what she considered herself. She took her time, which he appreciated. "I grew up around a lot of old houses too. There's a block of these old, run down Victorian-inspired houses where my parents live. Beautiful, gorgeous houses that are withered and gloomy but fascinating. Lots of people thought they were haunted, but I felt intrigued by them. I thought that all they needed was to be fixed up."

He could see that it was truth. There was this unplanned, un-cautioned way in how she spoke, like she wasn't practiced in answering that question but knew the answer anyway.

"So do you have me on file?"

The question set him back for a second. "What?" His reply was very uncouth and he jolted slightly at the query. He looked up from where he studied her sketches on the tabletop.

"I figured with this line of work you have to do some research on everyone, to see if you could trust them if anything. And if it's not Cobb, it's you."

He considered not telling her the truth but inevitably understood the futility of it. She already suspected and knew, so really why bother? "Yes."

"So what's on my file?"

He studied her up and down, deciding if she should know what he found. She pursed her lips at him, sizing him up with raised eyebrows, leaning forward on the flats of palms. "Go on."

"Ariadne Felicity Inman," he reeled off. "Father Dexter Frederick Inman. Mother Frances Ann Inman. Both of your parents are professors. Your father is world history and your mother is world literature. You have an older brother and sister. One is enlisted in the army. The other is in school—"

"Skip the basics," she ordered, waving her fingers away. "Did you get anything good?"

"You had a dog when you seven?" he asked.

"Wow. Is that what you call good?"

"Dogs are good," he explained with a shrug. "It shows character, but now that you tell me that you were also frightened of clowns then, it could be a result of that."

"Uncorrelated," she said dismissively. "Anything else?"

"I'm not a creep, Ariadne. I just had to make sure you were psychologically prepared for this and weren't a secret murderer."

"You went as far back as seven, that's pretty creepy."

"I just pointed out that I went through your history to see if you killed anyone, and you focus on me looking at your records at seven?"

She shrugged. "There had to be a good stopping point. I mean, how far would you need to go back to decide that I was stable and not a mass murderer?"

Arthur returned a shrug back. "I actually started at the beginning then went forward," he said.

"Oh."

"Yeah, but if it makes you feel any better, I stopped at age seven," he said with a nod and a deadpanned look.

"Did I become that predictable so early on in life?" She asked with a sigh.

"Yeah," Arthur agreed. "You peaked too soon."

* * *

"You're two weeks are almost up," she points out, walking around what appears to be the inside of a cathedral. Her voice echoes along the hard surfaces around them, along with the scuffle of the projections' feet, chatter, and the occasional squeak of metal from the iron gates in the front.

"Yeah," he agrees by her side. "The subject plans on leaving for London soon. We'll do it then."

She stops to study a wall of stone plaques. "Is it simple?" She asks over her shoulder.

"After inception, every job's been simple," he jokes good naturedly, though he can tell by the slight shake of her head that she remembers the entire episode from the months of planning to the actual job, which felt like months of work.

She gives him that and they walk on. "Do you miss it?" He asks suddenly, the question brimming to the surface before he has time to consider its purpose.

The burnished oak and the sandstone walls give off an aged feeling. The light through the stained windows slants across marbled tiling, which is delicately cracked in certain areas from wear. His projections act as tourists around the area, marveling just as much as he is. The entire environment feels completely believable that Arthur finds his totem in his pocket.

Ariadne looks above at the domed ceiling, carefully taking a few steps backwards as she studies it. "I do," she admits to the sky. "There's nothing quite like it."

Arthur stands too, watching her then the dome as small details from the rafters to the ceiling design transforms right before their eyes. His projections stop for a moment, but the dome edits itself so subtly that they go back to their business.

"You're a natural," he comments as they go back to walking. "Cobb told me when you first started about what you did. We never saw anyone take it up so—"

"Willy-nilly?" She finishes with a light chuckle.

"I was going to say with out inhibitions, but yes." Their steps echo along, the titter of the projections comfortingly busy around them as they walk. The world feels real and Arthur leaves her room to change and edit at her leisure. She'll stop occasionally to look at something small from the pews to the columns before moving on. The projections feel the changes, eyeing them more and more as she works, but he decides that there's time before anything extreme will happen. Besides, he likes seeing her work, studying her concentration as she erases and edits her designs until she's pleased.

"Do you think Cobb's right?" She asks, facing him. He feels taken aback at her sudden attention.

He shrugs it away. "Cobb's usually right, especially when he's being wrong," he says. "He breaks rules he sets for himself all the time, but he knows those rules are there for a reason."

She takes a moment to digest that before she nods an agreement. "That's the worst part of it." She walks towards a set of stairs to the side of the altar that wasn't there before. Years of apparent use wore the center of each stone step down to a smooth, low finish. She starts to lead up. "How much time do we have?" She asks, stopping on the first step to turn to face him.

Arthur looks around. "Who knows?" His voice echoes off the walls and he looks around again, as if their environment had the answers. The light from the windows continues to slant at the same angle and the people never change. It feels long, he knows, but their bodies had to be sitting in the warehouse for at least five minutes.

"Do you know about the whispering gallery?" She asks after her own assessment.

"You mean like the one in St. Paul's?" He shoves his hands in his suit pockets, looking up at her.

She smiles. "I always wanted to make one," she explains, heading up, and he follows suit.

* * *

"When are we going to start on that east wall?" She asks, following her supervisor. She has to make her voice a tad bit louder so he could hear her. An Englishman come to the firm two years ago, he continues to take in Miles' protégées, enjoying speaking in his native tongue, though he is fluent in French. "You went through the plans again yesterday," she adds, scuttling after him.

"It takes time, Ariadne," he calls back, walking through the work, the sounds of construction creating a large din around them, bellows of sawdust blocking the areas as they walk past. A few of the workers around them wave them off, gracing the small intern with a smile.

"But—"

"Never mind that now," he says, looking at his clipboard. "Did you—?"

"Contact the contractor? Done."

"And already—?"

"Forwarded the changes to his office yesterday."

"And we're—"

"—two days behind schedule," she reminds.

"So—"

"Good work, Ariadne?" She supplies. "We'll get on that wall soon?" She adds hopefully, holding her own clipboard higher.

Her supervisor stops to look at her. "Nice work Ariadne." He lightly hits her hard hat with his clipboard. "Don't get a big head," he jokes.

* * *

Arthur visits his family in New York, regaling his mother with boring stories of his consulting position and regaling his nephew with how toilets work in Australia. They have dinner in his sister's apartment, sitting at the table way past eating, talking and reminiscing. The last time he saw his family was right after the Fischer job, flown over once everything settled, so they have a lot to catch up on, from how big everyone's grown, to souvenirs passed out, to the nonexistence of everyone's love life except his mother's. There's a slight old-age feeling in talking with the people who know him best and being in a city where memories pop up by sight. Arthur feels it in his gut when he reclines in his chair as Liz passes him a bowl of peanuts. He chews on it as they sit and talk. He realizes how odd it is to be drinking bottles of beer with his mother, how old he feels when he ruffles Sam's hair.

The kitchen light hangs low above the table, the only light in the room, like a magical circle that Arthur can't escape. No one gets up, why should they? And ruin this easy ebb and flow of conversation? They go far back, from Liz's prom, to Arthur's first detention. They joke about Liz's early pregnancy and their mother's love life, these taboo topics safe in the golden haze of the table.

Soon, it becomes strained, memories, at least the good ones, all talked over, and slowly everyone leaves, back to reality. The table cleaned and the television on.

It's late when he pulls up his shirtsleeves and plugs the sink to ready washing the dishes when his sister comes in. For a split second, he can hear the television in the other room as his mother and nephew watch recorded _Jeopardy_ together. The kitchen door swings shut.

Lizzie leans on the back counter as he starts scrubbing in front of a window, the open breeze of Brooklyn greeting them.

"You know I could use help with this," he says casually, his elbows up in suds.

"Nah," she replies, folding her arms over her chest. "You are the guest." And Arthur laughs, going back to his work.

"Ever polite Liz," he says, "I'm sure the kid will take after you."

"Let's hope not," she says, appalled. "I'd want him to be like his dear old Uncle Arthur, washing dishes when Mom's tired." He laughs before she adds a little more soberly, "Forgetting his family when he works."

The words were left unsaid during their talk at the table, and at every turn Arthur expected to hear them. He expected Liz to sneak it in before their mom. When she didn't, he let his guard down apparently.

He turns to face her, her eyes soft. "Liz."

"You promised that it would be different," she says calmly. "After you stopped working with Cobb. You said that you'd settle down, but now you're traveling more than ever, you're hardly home, meanwhile Mom and Sam hardly see you."

He thinks of the purposeful times he missed home, how the amount of time spent away makes it harder to come back. The secrets, the false life, and everything he can't share with his family, he starts to realize, begins weighing down on his conscience. He copes by being in Paris, where, he knows someone who understands this fantasy life.

But it's not just that, though. No. It's trying to get out, trying to make a normal life from a full pack of lies. There's no escape he can see, despite his reputation as a planner, his acute attention to detail.

"Business is hard right now," he explains calmly, heavily. Each word chosen with precision and deliberation and yet empty on the ears. "Without Cobb, I'm not so sure—" He stops himself suddenly, allowing his voice to speak before proper thought, but his sister sees through it. She coaxes it out of him with years of practice.

"Not so sure what Arthur?" She asks in a low voice that is sane and undemanding. The same voice she used when he made his first lie about his job, the same voice he hears when she speaks to her son.

"I'm not so sure I know what to do now that Cobb left," he admits. "We were a team."

Liz looks at him with understanding and takes a few steps towards him. "Doesn't mean that you don't know what to do Art," she says. "You're the most detail-oriented, snazzily dressed person I know. I don't understand half of what you say when you talk about work or why you feel you can't tell us everything, but it sure sounds impressive. How can someone like that not know what to do?"

The smile he has is genuinely amused at her lack of understanding, her lack of severity. "I'm glad you listen at least when I'm talking, but I'm not sure you're focused on what I do. Though I appreciate the pep."

She reaches and hugs him, despite his soggy arms. He points it out, and she only tells him to keep his hands away from her hair. "You'll figure it out. You have time and means to do it now," she promises. "Your only stipulation is that you have to call more often."

"Okay," he relents.

"Okay."

"Okay…"

"You do know I won't let go until you say you love me right?" She says into his shoulder after a pause, and Arthur laughs despite himself.

"That was embarrassing in high school and continues to be," he says as he hugs her right back before patting her hair directly. "But I do love you," he professes, before she shoves him away to grab a towel.

* * *

**A/N: **I just wanted to thank you for the reviews and follows of this story. It means very much to me to have people interested and I can only hope still interested. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The phone line secured, and the number he uses changed often. It's one of the rare times that he is available for a long talk, the time difference never allowing, and she settles in, tossing a few popcorn kernels into her mouth, the bowl in her lap. All the lights of her apartment are off except for her bedside one. "What are we watching?" She asks between smacks, her hand holding onto her mobile as she plucks out kernels with the other.

Arthur advises her to stop talking with her mouth full before answering, "_Downton Abbey_."

"Why couldn't we watch _Bones_?" Ariadne asks, taking smaller bites, waiting for her computer to finish loading. It sits on her comforter near her knees.

"Because this is really good. You'll like it. It's named after a building. You like buildings," he reasons off.

After his last two weeks in Paris, they started watching _Bones_, it being one of the only English-speaking DVDs at the video rental down her block—it was that or _Ally McBeal._ She had no problem with either actually. But being only a weekend left, and _Bones_ being a series on for years, one afternoon was not enough to catch up, so Arthur came up with this system. All they needed was a safe line and perfect timing. He actually came up with it while he was in New York visiting his family—the connection there already secured for when he tried to contact them while on a job.

He signals her to start her video, and as the music swells and the credits roll, she frowns. "Oh is this some period piece? I'm not sure if I—"

"Will you shut up and just watch?" He snaps lightly.

She sighs and takes the popcorn aside. "Fine, but I've stopped mine. What's the time on your player?" It was his week to choose what to watch, seeing as it was her choice to watch _Bones_ when they originally started, and it only seemed fair to let Arthur have a turn. Though, while arguing, he pointed out that it was his secure connection that made this possible and it was his idea in the first place. She simply points out how petty he is.

Amicably, they decide to restart their videos anyway, and Ariadne settles to watch Arthur's recommendation, her mind already coming up with alternatives for the next time.

When the next scenes are rolling after the hour, Arthur lowers the volume on his headphones, and Ariadne closes her laptop. "Did you like it?" He asks, and Ariadne hears that hint of trepid eagerness in his voice.

She takes her time to reply, weighing what she just saw and sensing his anticipation for a good answer. She was always really excited to get someone to watch anything she suggested, so she allows him that, "It was good," she admits truthfully. "Does it get better? I don't really like any of the characters yet."

She hears the smile over the line. "It gets better. I promise."

"Okay."

"Okay."

She looks at her alarm clock on her nightstand and realizes the late hour and the early morning to come. "So where are you now?"

"Venezuela."

She repeats it, looking at the old map she kept up for the postcards. There's a dot there from before, and she remembers a small card tacked on her fridge bearing the same name. "Are you allowed to tell me why you're there in Venezuela?" She asks, already knowing the answer.

"Why does anyone ever come to Venezuela?" He quizzes.

"The food? The dancing? The _women_?" She reels off quickly, the last one with a lower overtly provocative tone, clearly joking.

He laughs. "Good night Ariadne."

"Good night Arthur."

"It's actually afternoon here," he corrects. And she can see him looking out his hotel room window, watching the sun and the kids playing. Or maybe he's in a Venezuelan version of the warehouse where they planned inception. Perhaps, he's wearing a straw hat and a kitschy vacation shirt, and maybe somewhere, pigs are flying.

"Well, good afternoon then. When are we watching the next episode?" She asks, catching him before he hangs up.

She waits as he considers it. "Same time tomorrow?

"I guess, but it better pick up soon," she warns.

"It will," he promises quickly. "You'll like it."

* * *

They walked along the Seine, talking. She spoke of her home in Atlanta, her schoolwork, what she wanted to try with her dreamscapes, the possibilities within shared dreaming, it origins. The topics were endless and easy. Her frankness enticed his own voice to come out, and Arthur never felt anything so candid before while working on a project.

Despite himself, she wheedled out conversation simply because she showed that she actually listened, actually cared. He saw it in how she wheedled information from Cobb, or Yusuf, or even Eames. Perhaps it was her naiveté or the men's own for trusting her with their secrets.

Either way, Arthur always felt her approach his desk and always had an acceptance to her suggestion for a walk.

* * *

"Ariadne?"

She looks up from her desk, loaded with blue prints and trade journals. "Yes?"

Denis, her supervisor for the past few months, gives her a gruff sort of nod as he comes to her desk. "Good work on the project,"' he says. "I bet you can't wait to see it once it's there."

Ariadne sits back in the office chair. "Of course." She thinks about the nights working with Denis, how they had to keep in mind the overall design along with utility. How many plans Denis and her went through, tests on materials, and considerations of time, weather, and people before everything was finalized. Ground breaking was in a month's time, and then work for a projected seven months.

It was the first full scale building that she got to help during her internship: one that wasn't renovation or addition but purely construction from the ground up.

It was different from dream building, where limitless scope of imagination has no barrier of time, materials, environment, or people; complex being the only utility of the creation. She plays God in dreams, seeing her world bend and expand at her will.

Patience isn't a virtue in her dreams. She molds the scenery until she finds it pleasant. Hard work also doesn't necessarily exist in dreams, though preparing and planning a proper maze for the dreamer can be grueling, she can trial and error within it if necessary.

Here, working in the real world, the chance to build cathedrals may be slim, but there's a satisfaction in creating something tangible, useful.

"You never forget your first project," Denis says, pulling her back before walking off. The thrill of creating, directly creating drew her into dreamscapes, and she was good at what she did. But practicality and the sheer want to return makes her wary of it. She likes building from real brick and mortar. She likes having other people's opinion and testing herself with her limits until she can bend it to her will.

"Oh, and I'll need those suggestions for the second floor after lunch," Denis tosses off while still walking.

"Of course."

She thinks about the hours logged and the little building about to be born. Granted, it won't be done as soon as she would like, but she never understood proper patience until this project. Denis was always open to suggestions and discussions. He always asked for an opinion, no matter how small.

Patience is something she's slowly learning.

She always projected towards the end of something, but here, right now, she's happy to dwell in the planning, to enjoy the experience, rather than seeing the result.

Just this once, she pulls out her totem from her messenger bag. She places it on her desk, her eye at its level, and flicks it. It lands with a thud.

* * *

Saito contacts him for a few jobs by the end of October. Quick jobs that won't take as much work as the Fischer case, the businessman promises.

The pay's good and everything will be in a small radius of area. Arthur agrees, hoping that a familiar boss and location might give him stability.

He tells Liz about it, and she's ecstatic at his temporary immobility. "For your health," she says and Arthur can hear the running of the sink and the slam of pots and pans near her. She's at work. "All that travel and sleep deprivation can't be good for you," she says before yelling an order over at a fellow chef.

"I sleep plenty," he says.

"All you do is work, Arthur. When would you have time for sleep, let alone fun?"

He honestly doesn't set these questions up, but they certainly always amuse him. Arthur doesn't reply but gives his number to her and tells her to keep in touch.

* * *

It's a one off in Arthur's hotel room, but then again one never plans these things.

They walk around what appears to be a football field. A pack of football players practice drills on the turf as a coach yells orders, a whistle hanging on his lip. A few joggers make their way around them, breathing heavily. Ariadne makes her way towards the cement bleachers. No one takes notice of them.

She leans on the wire fencing at the front of the risers. The sun is hideously bright, and Ariadne has to squint as she looks up at him, but it's not hot. The temperature is actually bearable.

He takes the time to look around, studying his surroundings. "Where are we?"

She gestures towards the scoreboard. "A more picturesque version of my high school." And Arthur reads the yellow and blue script telling him that he's in the Home of the Badgers! They look at the Kelly green of the field, the bright lemon yellow of the jerseys, and the blue sky above them. Arthur notices a few of his projections eyeing them as they pass, but they relatively go unnoticed. Especially since, he notes, he wears a sweater vest and button down, while she wears a t-shirt and a polka dot, flippy skirt. Of course, she has a flimsy scarf.

Seeing his glance, she pinches the fabric of her skirt between two fingers. "Funny," she says. She lifts her feet wearing laced up combat boots. "This is how I dressed in high school." She stifles a snort as she sees his sweater vest and khakis.

"What?" He asks, though he has a feeling he knows exactly what it is.

"Did you really wear that in high school?" She asks, her eyes gleaming with delight.

He looks affronted. "Yes."

And she lets out a small scoff as she crosses her arms to lean on. "Figures."

"What?" She turns away, her shoulders shaking. "I look dapper," he protests.

"Of course," she says between heaving breaths. "You're always _dapper_." She pats his shoulder comfortingly. "And don't you forget that," she says, punctuating each syllable with a pat.

He remains unmoved, standing straight up. "How does everything turn into make fun of Arthur?"

"Because it's so easy to tease you?"

He leans on the bars as well, and both of them look out over the track and field. "You do still miss it, don't you?" He asks, and she looks up from where she was busy focusing on the trees further away from the field.

"You don't mean teasing you do you?" He doesn't deign that with a reply, and she knows what he means. "Sort of, but," she says, biting a smile. "Dom's right."

"Yeah," he relents, "but never tell him that. We'll never hear the end of it."

She laughs. "He is though. I need to build something in the real world, something I can point at and be proud of, because, while this is amazing," she explains, looking around. "I can't really say that I got to see it through. It's trial and error in dreamscapes. There's no anticipation from idea, drawing board, construction, and creation. It's _pure_ creation, and I've been spoiled by it."

They let her words drift off as they watch the football players huddle up. The coach yells some orders.

"So what does this mean for the Ariadne dream machine?" He asks, studying her.

"It means," she repeats. "That right now, while I miss doing this, I want to make something real. I'm going to try, at least, to do something for myself."

He nods along. "And then?"

"And maybe then I can go back to dreaming."

He looks around, silently agreeing with her. "That's good to do," he admits, thinking about how different her reaction is than months ago, when she dejectedly accepted Dom's request. She always had a way into the world, if she asked for his help, and he was always slightly prepared for that demand one day. Only, here she was, by her own conviction, turning away herself. Telling him everything Dom insisted on. He has to admire that sort of character, especially since he lacked it himself.

Seven years on the field and he never looked for an out once. There were times, of course. He felt it when he came back home to see Sam able to reach the kitchen sink, when he remembered the kid needing help to open the refrigerator. He saw it when he would sometimes, not on purpose, run into someone in his old neighborhood. They would be settled and married, maybe one on the way. He wanted it from seeing Dom and Mal when they first got married and started to build their home together, started creating reality to live in, but only to have it ruined when he saw the effects of Mal's sanity.

Dom never said, never explained, but when Arthur would visit, when he would just sat near here alone, Mal would say odd things, allude to odd things that made sense only to those privy to shared dreaming. Arthur had his suspicions on Mal's death and the allegations made against his friend only proved Mal's version of truth. He knows they loved each other. He never saw two people who felt that way for one another, and he admired it, desired it even. But, he felt the pang of disappointment, a feeling greater than pity, when his friends' story ended as a tragedy. All of it was done simply because of an addiction to these false worlds, which created false expectations.

Arthur knows all of this, acutely, and yet, he doesn't quit. Perhaps he's addicted to the adrenaline rush of solving the puzzle and getting the mark. Perhaps he admire this girl in front of him because she's doing something he knows he never had the courage to do himself.

"Do you think so?" She asks, bringing him back to the situation.

The amused way she says it tells him that she suspected he'd disapprove or find a fault with it, and he reassures her of her decision. "Yeah." He stands up straight and leans a shoulder to turn his body to face her fully. "I got caught up too easily when I first learned about it. I was right out of school when I was first asked to hack some information on a CEO for some oil company. From there, I just fell in."

"No great story, Arthur? You just fell in?"

"Not so great I'm afraid."

"How does the not-so-great Arthur simply fall into this line of work anyway?"

He assesses her, slightly mesmerized by the large brown eyes staring earnestly back at him. Her eyes were the first things he noticed about her when she first came to him that sunny day in Paris. The next thing he saw was her scarf.

"I was actually a journalism major at university. I wanted to be an investigative journalist for big papers."

"Exposing the truth?" She says with a quirked brow. "How straight-edge compared to now."

"Yeah, yeah, but it was more like solving a puzzle. I enjoyed the details, those small insignificant clues that led to a big picture. I read newspapers, tracking small stories, which inevitably led to bigger ones weeks later.

Maybe because I was a little bit paranoid, though I like to call it a hobby," he adds and Ariadne nods along, "I started researching stories as much as I could. I got better at hacking systems for clues and leads, and one of the companies I worked on at the time, seemed to be a target for some pretty petty thieves, who were willing to pay. Being a college student, I didn't see the harm, especially for the amount they were singing. So I ended up doing recon work for them for a couple of jobs.

They always asked for weird specifics like the architect of certain sites, favorite foods, how a home was organized, what the subject's dream vacation would be, things that normal thieves wouldn't need. It was extensive, so I ended up trying to see what they needed it for, and I found out everything about dreamscapes through it. When they realized what I did, they asked me to join them."

"Just like that?"

"In story-form it sounds easier, but believe me, that story, while my last investigation, was probably the most difficult one to figure out, mainly because I was stumped with doubt."

"Dream sharing is still pretty doubtful in my eyes."

"Yeah, well, I lacked the imagination then, still do according to Eames, but at the time, I was in my last year, trying to figure out what I wanted to do. I had no idea what I was good for and hacking and recon work for cash was just easy, even fun. But I ran into Dom a few years after that. He worked on the right side of shared dreaming, whereas I was already making money being a thief. He heard of my work and asked if I would work with him and his wife. It only became illegal after Mal's death."

"What did you do with the Cobbs before then?" She asks quietly.

Arthur thinks of the years of working with the couple, meeting Eames a couple of times during their work, and the strenuous months of studying levels, chemicals, structures, and effects of outside forces. Everything particular. Everything exact.

"Dom and Mal wanted to figure out as much as they could of shared dreaming. They just wanted someone who would be able to keep up with their research and what else was going around the field, both legally and illegally.

"It's oddly magnificent that you want to get away from it," he says earnestly. Never had he seen someone turn away so quickly. Dom was right when he predicted that Ariadne would be back from their first lesson. Dom could see how addicting it would be for someone so creatively inclined like himself, but he didn't see that it could ruin creativity for that person. He didn't see that it would make a person's wants and desires be so ephemeral. "I think that's wise," Arthur says, "because look at Dom and Mal."

"What about them?" She asks as the football team runs through another play. When the players smash onto the ground and the ball tumbles away, the coach blows his whistle, splintering through the air.

"I love them, of course, but what happened to them was a tragedy, and I think that this lifestyle consumed them," he admits. They watch as the team reassembles and the coach goes on yelling advice and criticism.

"But they were together for so long," she points out. "They did get to grow old together."

"True," Arthur agrees, "but they never got to live in reality together. I think they missed something in spending so much time in a dream."

Another whistle cuts into the air, this time much closer. It catches both of them off-guard, and Ariadne jolts slightly. "How much longer do we have?" She asks slightly breathless. A couple of joggers pass by in a blur, heading towards the track coach, a whistle hanging on the side of her mouth.

Arthur looks at his watch, a small plastic affair that had a button that brightened the screen in the dark. He had a similar one when he was in high school. "Maybe half an hour at least," he judges.

She looks around before hitting the fence pole in front of her like a drum, one hand then the other. "Come on. Let's go look around." She takes the few steps away to lead off, and for the first time, Arthur notices that her tights are purple. He smiles at that before following.

"Yeah, I meant to ask you, why your high school?"

She stops, mid step. Her head quirks to the side as she thinks about it. A small, decisive look on her face as she faces him head on. "I was thinking about the last time I made a decision that I was happy with, and I thought about the day I got my acceptance to college." She shrugs. "Nostalgia and what not." She looks him up and down. "How long are you in town for?"

"About two month or so. Saito has a couple of jobs he wants me to look after, and I can do it while I stay here."

She smiles. "You should stay with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, her expression on her clear oval face pricelessly deadpan. "It'll be fun."

* * *

He told himself that he knew her so well and understood her so well because he just picked up on acute details, like how she held her pencil under her nose when she thought or how when she scratched the back of her neck, it meant that she was tired of Eames' nonsense for the day. The fact that he liked her scarves or how she wasn't afraid to raise her voice at any of them was from sheer respect on his part, of course.

He just needed to keep away from her. Distance, he told himself, was what he needed from her, but her insistence that they were friends, friends who trusted one another, ruined that completely.

They could be friends, he reasoned. He knew they could. He just never told her that being friends wasn't something people did in this line of work.

* * *

Ariadne twists a scarf around her neck as she looks in the oval mirror in her living room.

"Can I meet him?" Rebecca asks from the couch.

"Who?" Louis pipes up from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of wine to the coffee table.

"Ariadne's new beau," she explains, thanking him for the glass.

Louis raises his eyebrows and looks slyly at her. "Not like that," Ariadne says immediately. She repeats herself in French. "Not like that at all."

Louis nods along knowingly. "But he's a prospect?"

"He's a friend," Ariadne corrects. "An old co-worker actually."

"A prospect nonetheless," Rebecca adds. She turns to Louis, "he got her to watch _Downton Abbey_." She relays this information as if it should convey some deeper meaning, but Louis looks confused.

"He's a friend who will be staying in Paris for a few weeks, so I invited him to stay with me," Ariadne explains, shooting Rebecca a look.

"Oh." Rebecca's face falls slightly with exaggerated disappointment. "He's living here? Clearly this won't work out," she says, elongating her words in mockery.

"Paris has worked wonders on prospects," Louis exclaims to Ariadne, winding an arm around Rebecca. "It's very bohemian to already be living together."

Ariadne wonders at the word "bohemian" being used to describe anything associated with Arthur. "No, just a guy I've known for—" she stops to do some quick thinking. Two years, almost three. That didn't seem right. She thinks about the first time she met him, how imposing and exact he seemed. Then again, she can't remember the real first time she met him, having been drugged somewhere en route to the warehouse so Cobb could amaze her with shared dreaming.

"Ariadne? Are you having some sort of epiphany?" Rebecca calls out. "Is this that moment when you realize your true feelings?" Ariadne flicks them off and the couple laughs, drinking her wine and stretching out on her couch. Rebecca has a tendency to picture everything as a romantic comedy or a French film. Her friend's romantic side brought her to Paris to study art history, and it was in a renaissance architecture class that they bonded over bonbons and macaroons in the back row, missing home but enjoying the food. She now organizes tours of one of the smaller museums in Paris, happy with the quaint street her workplace resides, especially since she sees Louis three blocks over during lunch breaks.

Louis leans forward and pecks his girlfriend on her smiling lips.

Ariadne frowns at her friends, who, after years of classes together and flirting, finally came together the night of graduation. She remembers Louis asking Rebecca shyly to the dance floor, only to be found making out with her in her in the restroom an hour later. Ariadne loves them to death, but their excessive coupledom seeps into every male interaction she has. They conjectured whether she was in love with Denis before they finally met him during her lunch break last week. He spoke of his kids and how much Louis reminded him of his new son-in-law.

"He's the one who sent these postcards right?" Louis asks gesturing at the stationary still tacked up in random areas of her apartment.

She mentally shoots herself for forgetting to take those down. She does this often when people notice them. "Yes."

"That is very traditional," he murmurs, his French side nodding in approval.

"Also very friendly," Ariadne stresses. She looks at her watch. "Now, if you two are done raiding my wine, I very much should be going right now. I need to help him with his stuff before we go out."

Louis and Rebecca look at one another before downing their glasses, leaving them empty on her table, familiarity telling them that's okay to do so. "À bientôt," Louis expresses, kissing her on the cheek.

"J'espère," she replies airily as she pushes him out with a laugh.

Rebecca comes up next, enveloping her in her arms. "Well have fun on your not-date," she says, stressing the last word. "Where are you going?"

* * *

Arthur refuses to take the 3D glasses off once they leave the theater, out of shame he tells her.

"Why?" she asks, attempting to stifle her laughs.

He explains that he doesn't want anyone to recognize him as he leaves the building. They bypass a couple, weepy, and a gaggle of students still singing the song from the ending credits with exaggerated vibrato. They make their way out of the cinema and into the fresh evening. Ariadne tugs at her white scarf.

"I can't believe I was roped into watching that movie again," he replies, looking both ways before crossing the street. "It didn't improve at all." She guffaws at his exaggerated disappointment. He's dapper with the black Costello-like lenses, the silver 3D logo on the side the only giveaway. Though, it's foolish to continue walking in the night like that, she can't help but think that he still looks terribly well-put together walking around.

"What did you expect?" She asks, guiding him with the rest of the crowd. "It's a classic. You don't just see people changing _Casablanca._"

He looks down at her, his mouth and eyebrows suggesting his eyes: askance. "How can you even say that?"

She purses her lip as she hooks her arm under his. "You didn't even like it a little?" she wheedles.

"If anything, my awareness, thanks to my age, has made it worst."

Despite herself, she laughs, and he tightens his hold on her hand. She scoots closer towards him as the crowds exiting the cinema go off in different directions, now out of the range of the marquee lights. "You're awful. If you didn't like it before, then why come at all?" she tests.

"You're the one who was begging," he points out, leading her assuredly down the sidewalk towards one the many open late kebab stands on the block.

"That's because no one else would go, Arthur," she replies. "I can count on you."

"Yeah," Arthur says, and she senses a small bit of hesitation on his part. She realizes what she just said, and she wonders whether it was blatant to admit to it. They were team members, true. A bond of trust establishes itself in any successful team out of necessity, camaraderie, and time, but what were they now? They hadn't worked together officially in at least two years, and yet here they are, going to movies of all things, like they normal friends. Is that it? It's odd to consider a man like Arthur could be it, but they are friends, turning to each other more than out of necessity of her skills as an architect or his knowledge of the field. He was staying in her apartment for gosh sakes.

His hesitation after she says it—out of the context of a job or any dire impediment—tells her that he never noticed before either, that their relationship is no longer an excuse of his checking on her for Dom or a way to use her for dream sharing. Instead, there's a simple desire to just hang out, as if anything Arthur does can be described in such plebian terms. He wore a black sweater over an Oxford shirt and tie to the cinema, ever the gentleman.

She wonders whether he realizes this, any of it, and slowly, she starts to extricate her arm from his. "But—" and she feels him start to tighten his grip on her elbow as she speaks "—please don't abuse that power."

He starts to walk up to the fluorescently lit food truck parked at the curb. "It's a horrible, horrible movie," he goes on. "I don't think I'd like to relive that again or that song again or watch those characters again, ever." The look he gives her is mockingly disgusted as he speaks of the film, but the underlying smirk gives the impression of acceptance. He gets it too.

Ariadne guffaws. "I doubt there'd be a sequel," she says.

"Doesn't matter. I can see why Jack let go."

She gasps, enjoying herself. "Hush your mouth!"

Arthur stops in front of the food truck, moving her hands from the crook of his arm to his palm. "You need to let go Ariadne. You need to let go."

Ariadne could not prevent the smile spreading across her face. "Arthur?" she asks near the clinical white lights of the kebab stand. "You do too." And she tiptoes only slightly to remove the glasses off his face.

* * *

Arthur spends his days doing recon work for Saito. He follows a subject to London for a day, he sends all of his research to an extraction team, and calls the lead extractor for more intell on the job, deciding on what Arthur needs to do and swapping over ideas for each potential extraction. The jobs, though quick, require more time because of the amount of subjects Saito wants to hit. Leave it to Saito to give them a list of businessmen he needs to steal from.

In the interims and in the evenings, he spends time with Ariadne or he calls home.

He wakes up on Ariadne's couch long after Ariadne's left for her internship, grabs croissants and coffee from the same café on her block, then spends the day working. He has dinner with her in the evenings, cooking in her apartment or actually walking three blocks to the Latin Quarter just because they're lazy chefs.

He doesn't go into the field. He doesn't have to practice with other team members, because he's relatively a deskman. It's similar work to what he did back when he was just starting, before all of the excitement started, and comparatively, he's never felt this mundane in his life.

But he enjoys it.

* * *

Ariadne stands in Rebecca's small office at the museum, studying the prints of famous art works and touching the bric-a-brac on her friend's desk. She has fifteen minutes before she has to go back to work.

"He seems nice," Rebecca offers, sitting in her computer seat. Ariadne looks over her shoulder form the shelf she stands in front of, reading the titles off. "Very well _groomed_," she pronounced and Ariadne scoffs with a laugh.

"Groomed? That's all?" She asks, knowing her friend. He makes her way to the seat in front of the desk and plops into it.

"Exact?" Rebecca tries and Ariadne rolls her eyes, slouching into the chair.

"Well, I'm glad he made an impression at least. I'll have to tell him that you found him perfectly _clean_." She laughs again.

"Are you sure you don't like him?" Rebecca wheedles, and Ariadne shakes her head adamantly. "I think you guys would be good for each other."

"What do you mean good for each other?" She asks in disdain. "How can you get that from one lunch?"

"He's very," Rebecca looks up, searching for the word, "detailed and pragmatic. It compliments you."

"Because I'm so disorganized?"

"Because you're impetuous and stubborn. You need someone who will match you, take you on without letting you win, and he needs someone who will fight his practicality. He acts too grown up for his own good."

Ariadne looks at her friend, attempting to absorb everything properly to analyze later. Though, her immediate reaction is a big, obvious warning sign to stop venturing into that direction. "That's probably why we're better off as friends," Ariadne replies and the look Rebecca gives her, her chin pointed down and her lip curled up doubtfully, tells her that she didn't sound convincing.

"Well, I think he's smitten with you," Rebecca replies smartly, tapping onto her keyboard.

"What?" Ariadne demands, then slower, "what makes you say that?"

Her friend is annoyingly tight-lipped her answer but continues to type furiously.

"Becks." Ariadne's voice holds warning.

"I just don't think he sees it yet," Rebecca replies primly. "And neither do you."

* * *

They're playing darts in a bar. "How about him?" Arthur asks gesturing towards a man leaning against the counter. While he looks, Ariadne flicks her wrist, letting loose a red dart towards the edge of the board. It sticks.

"Rats." She follows where he's looking. The man at the bar. He's skinny and tall. His hair is in curly disarray, and he has a loose button-up on. "Oh clearly he's a writer."

Arthur looks at him as well. "Really?" he asks doubtfully.

"Yeah," she gives him a once over. "Look at his clothes. His hair cut. His shoes." She lists them off, directing his focus at every point. Worn but basic. Haplessly styled, like he had just rolled out of bed. Scuffed but clearly good leather. "I thought details were in your line of work."

"You're deducing a lot from just his appearance. We could be catching him after work." She stands back and watches as Arthur shoots his dart a little closer to the bulls' eye. "You have to pay attention to how he acts, what he drinks, how he talks. That's where you get their character. Not their clothes."

Ariadne focuses on the guy. He looks around her or Arthur's age. He is relatively good-looking, speaking to the bar tender in animated French

"See how he's speaking and gesturing?" Arthur asks, shooting another dart. "He's not a natural born French speaker. His gestures are a way to help him convey meaning because he wasn't very good when he first started."

Ariadne notices that he would snap every once and while, grappling for a word out of thin air.

"Fair enough," she allows, waiting for Arthur to run out of darts. "So what do you think?"

They stand there, side by side, judging him. "He's new to the area, but being France, I'd say he's here to work on something artistic, but with purpose," Arthur concludes thoughtfully. "He's probably some sort of free-lance graphic designer or photographer."

Ariadne shakes her head. "Nope. Writer. I've seen his type around Paris."

"You only say that because you like him."

She looks affronted. "I do not!"

Arthur doesn't say anything but gives her a knowing smile.

She rolls her eyes and makes her way towards the dartboard. When she turns around, "What are you doing?"

The man takes a seat nearby and Arthur makes his way over. Ariadne feels her face heat up but hopes that the dim lights in the bar would help hide it.

They are laughing now, the man and Arthur. Joking like old friends, when the two walk over. Ariadne turns around and shoots a dart dead center, despite her nerves.

"Impressive," a new voice says behind her. She slowly turns around to come face to face with him. "Clearly you're a professional."

She looks at Arthur who wiggles his eyebrows. "I wish," Ariadne replies with a laugh. She extends her hand. "I'm Ariadne. I'm sorry if Arthur has roped you into coming over here. He's just a sore loser."

The man takes her hand firmly. "Tom," he says. She notices his flat accent. It was American. She raises her eyebrows impressively at Arthur. "And he didn't. I stopped him on his way to the bar."

Arthur is quick to take up his cue. "Which I was distracted from." He looks at Ariadne. "Want anything?"

In her hands, she holds the dart between her fingers, brushing them against the plastic feather of the dart. She looks at Tom. "What is it that you do Tom?" she asks.

"I'm a reporter," he says. And Ariadne nods then looked at Arthur with a tight smirk. "I just started at a small paper here."

Ariadne nods, then looks over her shoulder at Arthur. "This one's on you," she tells Arthur happily.

* * *

After two months, he leaves suddenly.

She's not sure what she expected from him. She doesn't understand why she feels offended or hurt by it because it's inexplicably Arthur. She predicted it herself when she offered him a place to stay and had been expecting it in their early days together.

Is it silly to say that she grew accustomed to him being there? She easily allowed him into her daily schedule, and she grew used to seeing him for lunch and dinner or whenever she needed to leave the apartment. Despite his plans, he was always up for going somewhere with her. Besides, the apartment seemed cleaner with him there. Maybe it was his habits rubbing off on her, but she didn't leave empty take-out boxes on the coffee table or forget to pick up her work clothes after she pulled them off haphazardly at the end of the day. At first it was self-consciousness, then it became habit, though Arthur never said anything chiding. She just wanted to make him comfortable, offering an empty dresser drawer for his own stuff, hanging his suits in her closet, where there was space. His toothbrush sat right next to hers in the cup too. It was oddly intimate how near their cottons, silks, and toiletries were with one another, oddly domestic.

But after two months, he leaves suddenly.

Ariadne wakes up and finds the comforter on her couch folded neatly with a small slip of paper ripped from his Moleskin, one small word written in small, decisive cursive, his handwriting.

_Thanks._

* * *

_**A/N: **First things first, I wanted to thank bells-mannequin and AjmZjm for their reviews for the last chapter and everyone who followed and favorited. It always cheers me up to get these notifications in my inbox, and it gives me more fuel to write._

_Also, I just watched _Whip It_ and am obsessed with that movie right now, so I wanted Bliss and Tom from (500) Days to sort of make an appearance, albeit as their high school selves. Yeah, it might seem like a stretch but indulge me._

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

She's almost at the end of her term here. The building is all skeleton, the bare iron structure of a promised something great to come.

She can't wait to see it. She can't wait to walk in it and explore it.

But right now, she enjoys the small sense of satisfaction just watching the skeleton sit there as everyone leaves for the day. She enjoys filling in the empty spaces between the iron beams with the walls she saw in the first drafts. She sees the drawing come to life in her reality.

"Ariadne?"

She looks over at Denis, who gestures for her to come to him. It's time to talk, she knows.

* * *

"Why come along then?" She asked while she sat on the opposite end of the table, eating a baguettewich she bought at the corner bistro right outside the warehouse.

Saito took a dreg from his coffee cup like he had all the time in the world. When he put the cup back down, he looked at her with a small smile, one that she saw him use to make a deal. "Because," he explained, "it's a project close to my interests, and I always work closer to the team when I'm invested in the outcome. And, in this case, I am deeply invested in the outcome."

She took a bite out of her baguettewich, nodding along. "Despite there being no room for tourists?" She teased.

He lifted his eyebrows. "You have been talking to Mr. Eames, I take it?"

She didn't reply. Instead, she took another bite.

"From what I can see, Mr. Eames works in his best interests. He just thinks that having me not there helps him more."

"But if you both have similar motivations, then how does it work out?"

Saito gave a secretive smile. "The financial backer always has the final say."

"That's terrible."

"I know," he replied good-naturedly, "but I'm paying you." And Ariadne didn't hide the guffaw that rose in her throat.

* * *

He walks along the tarmac with Trevor, the extractor he partnered up with for this particular job. It's his first job after his month in Paris, and he feels almost rejuvenated by the action, by holding a gun, by thinking on his feet, albeit in dreams.

Trevor's a good leader. He asks Arthur to join him after working with him on Saito's marathon of extractions. He's not like Cobb, and they didn't have the same close relationship, but he's straightforward and knows what he's doing.

"Where are you headed?" Arthur asks. He carries his suitcase low as they walk towards the plane Arthur secures for them.

"Back home," Trevor replies crisply, leaving it at that. Arthur understands. The job of extraction isn't one where you can get close to anyone, though partners and alliances are relatively understood in the business. Cobb and him are actually an anomaly, almost a joke to other extractors and thieves.

"You?" Trevor asks, and Arthur sees that the man attempts politeness or maybe he just wants to see how Arthur wants to play this relationship.

He smiles as they walk up the steps towards the private jet. "Same."

* * *

It's early sunset when Ariadne walks Tom onto the worn gold circle in front of the Notre Dame. She takes both of his hands, outstretching his arms and drops them.

"D'accord monsieur," she tells him, gesturing towards the ground with a smile.

"Oui mademoiselle?" He asks, peeking up, and Ariadne can't help but feel squirmy. Her heart gives a small jolt again when he looks at her.

"This," she explains, turning away fast, "is the center of the city. You are at Kilometro Zero."

It's silly, this tradition, but she remembers when Rebecca took her when they started grad school at the college. She remembers walking here at the beginning of every year, so Rebecca could deem it a new beginning with their fresh new steps in Paris. When Tom asks her a place to start Paris, she already has a place in mind.

She doesn't expect him to call. She truly doesn't, but she can't help that anxious, surprise leap in her chest when she answers her mobile and an American accent greets her.

He needs a favor, he tells her. Being his first time in the city, he needs a guide, and seeing as she has been a current resident for at least six years, he hopes that she could show him around.

But, he stipulates, she could only speak French to him, as though he said he was fluent on his resume, he hasn't taken a course since he left college.

They meet at the bar where they first met, where he played darts with her and Arthur. The pair told him about life in the city, how he would enjoy the food, and they asked him where had he been to so far. He told them that he's been too scared to move two blocks from his apartment or his work, though he'd been in Paris for over a month. He seemed glad to have run into Arthur, who told him amicably that he didn't live there but that Ariadne would be an excellent guide if he ever needed one.

If she's honest, she flirted, maybe unintentionally and what with Arthur nearby, it seemed too uncomfortable to really act that way, but, if she is honest, she's interested and she can see that he is too.

"You're speaking English," he points out, still standing on top of the gold dial.

She shrugs. "You're at Kilometer Zero, no French speaking until you've taken your first official steps away."

He levels a steady look at her, and Ariadne feels herself blush. Without looking away, he takes a step toward her. "So what am I now?"

"Toi?" She asks, catching his arms as he comes to her. "Monsieur," she reaches and pecks him on the cheek. "Bienvenue à Paris."

* * *

"Ariadne?"

Ariadne opened her eyes and saw the point man look at her quizzically. "Arthur?"

"What are you doing, if you don't mind me asking?"

Ariadne looked down at her feet, at the worn down gold plate she imagined under there. "I'm standing on the center of the city."

Arthur made his way over, his lifted eyebrows his only crack in his professionalism. "It's silly, really. It's sort of a tradition that my friend and I always do…" she drifted off.

Arthur was near her shoulder now, his head to look down at her loafers, the dusty gold plate peaked out. "And you created one for here?" He asked.

She attempted to hide her bashfulness, shuffling her feet. "Yes."

They stood on the street in Yusuf's dream level, having gone under to explore the layout. Arthur said he wanted to test out the drive to the warehouse and Ariadne agreed, having an idea in her head already to explore. She convinced him that she didn't need to come along, wanting him to figure out the route on his own, and she went out, knowingly, to the center of the modern cityscape, past the iron and glass sheen of modern buildings and towards the front of what appeared to be a large glass fronted museum with steps leading up to the doors. Mentally, she assumed it would take Arthur at least thirty dream minutes to test out the ride and seeing him here felt like an invasion of her privacy.

"Do you always plan out a city like that?" He asked, and Ariadne took his tone to be suspicious rather than quizzical.

It couldn't have taken him more than ten minutes, she assumed. It didn't take her that long to walk here, especially since there weren't any cars in the area. He couldn't possibly have been there and back in such a short amount of time. "How did you get here so fast? The warehouse is about fifteen minutes away," she said, voicing her concern.

"I followed you," he replied easily, stepping away from her to study the area. "Is this why you wanted to shake me so quickly?"

She pushed down the glare coming to the surface but her voice couldn't hide its surliness. "Yes."

"Mind if I have a turn?"

Ariadne felt the mockery of his tone and stood securely onto the gold plate. "Excuse me?"

Arthur walked towards her, standing right behind her. "Step off, I want to try it."

"It's not a ride Arthur. Nothing amazing happens," she said, staying still.

"Yeah, well, clearly it means something to you, if you added it."

"Yes."

"Then, let me have a try."

She rolled her eyes, hating him for ruining something so secretly sacred to her.

But this was Arthur, she understood. This was Arthur who patiently explained the tricks of dream sharing with her, who took walks with her around the city and didn't mind that she needed side explanations during Cobb's meetings. This was Arthur who clearly saw through her obvious push to get rid of him when they first entered this dream.

"Fine. Be my guest." She stepped off the plate and gestured overtly with a small bow and her arm extended to the ground.

"Cute." He straightened his jacket and closed his eyes. "Do I make a wish or is this a reflective place?"

"Please don't make fun."

"Merely awaiting instruction Obi-wan," he replied easily. He peaked an eye open and sighed. "Then what do I do?"

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Close your eyes," she started reluctantly, thinking of how her speech when her and Rebecca dragged themselves to Kilometro Zero. She sighed, heavily. "Now think of what you're undertaking, think of what we're about to do, and realize that you're going to do it.

"Then know that you're here at the center of it all," she continued, earnestness easing into her voice at the sheer comfort of its repetition. They did these speeches to boost each other's confidence before term started, and varying on circumstance and sometimes order, this speech was said annually and without fail. "This is you starting off," she said, "take your first steps."

She watched him follow her instructions, stepping off the plate towards her, before opening his eyes. She greeted him with a flourish of her hand and a smile. "That's it?" He asked, and she frowned at that.

"What do you mean?" She asked suspiciously.

"That's it? I'm done?"

"No," she corrected because it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That's it. You're just beginning."

* * *

"I'm in town for three days and you can't even spare me a couple of hours?" Arthur asks as he sits on her couch.

"Arthur. How many times do I have to say it? I have a date, and as much as I want to cancel it and take you to Etamine's or to the Latin Quarter, I'm busy." She rushes from the bathroom to her bedroom in various states of getting ready: a hairbrush in one hand, then a small bag of make-up.

"Cancel this once," he orders. "He'll understand."

"No," her voice says from the bathroom. "We've had this planned for a week. Unlike you, Tom doesn't tell a girl five minutes before he arrives at her apartment that he's in town."

He still sits on the couch, still dressed in his suit straight from the plane. "I like to keep the spontaneity alive."

"Your spontaneity, like yourself, is well timed and planned, as you well know," she retorts, walking into the living room holding what looks like a chained necklace. "Your consideration however remains to be attended to."

He bashfully remains silent as she comes up to him.

"Help me?" She asks, holding it out, and he stands as she picks up her wavy hair from her neck. He can smell the effort she's making. New perfume. It's sweet and flowery as it wafts towards him when he unclasps the necklace, his fingers slightly brushing against her skin. The touch is purposefully light on his part, and for a small moment, he's unable to react properly as he looks at her back. He's never seen her neck this exposed before. With her trademark scarf out of the way, he takes a peek at the clean lines from the base of her scalp to where her neck meets her shoulders. There's a small freckle right at the nape, he sees.

"Arthur?" It triggers him back, and he pulls the necklace over her and starts to clasp it. "Arthur, you're free to crash here," he hears in a slight daze, "but I'm not cancelling." She walks off brusquely, throwing a thank you over her shoulder and leaving that smell behind her.

"So you don't expect it to go well?" He asks calmly from the empty living room, a stark contrast to her hurried frenzied movements between the bathroom, hallway, and bedroom. "Besides, I already booked a room, being last minute and all. I just thought I'd visit."

She peeks around the doorframe of the bathroom. "I take back what I said of your consideration, then." He bows his head in acknowledgement. "But you could've stayed with me again, other than the last minuteness of it, you're always welcomed to stay."

"But not tonight apparently," he poses snidely and she sticks her tongue out before popping back into the room. He listens for the sounds of dropping bottles, small yelps from her, the rustle of fabric, and finally the squawk of the door as she exits.

She stares him down as she makes her way to the door, and Arthur takes a good look at her. It's the most dressed up he's ever seen her. She pulled her hair slightly back in a low chignon, wisps falling around her clear, oval face. She wears a simple black dress and strappy black shoes with a heel. Her make-up is done subtly, but he can see the changes around the eyes, the slight color on her lips and her cheeks. There's a rush about her, an excitement in how she stands before him, almost impatiently, almost giddily. He feels it, as he looks at her, unable to stop studying her, the buzz radiating off of her clearly intoxicating.

He's still mesmerized by her neck. The sheer exposure of it astounds him, catches him off guard as he stares. He can't help it.

"Still. You can hang here if you want. Take out numbers on the fridge," she says, not noticing. "And he has his own apartment," she adds to answer his previous statement.

She rifles through the coat rack to pull a small purse hanging on a chain.

"You're going out there, like that?" He can't help but ask and she quirks a brow at his odd question. "You're not wearing a scarf," he says lamely.

Ariadne touches her neck, self-consciously before laughing. "I think we're at the point where he can see me without a scarf." She puts her hand on the doorknob.

"Wait," he starts suspiciously. "What date number are you on?"

She smiles and gives a flippy wave as she opens her door. "Don't wait up."

* * *

"Blue."

"No."

"Grey."

"No."

"White?"

"Ariadne," Arthur said as he leaned back in his chair. "Why is it important for you to figure out my favorite color?"

She looked at him like it should be obvious. "Recon."

"Green," piped up another voice from the farther side of the warehouse.

"Et tu Eames?" He asked wearily. From his desk, Ariadne and Arthur looked at the forger watching them intently from his chair a couple of feet away.

"Pink?" He tried.

Ariadne laughed and pushed herself off from Arthur's desk. "It's important. A favorite color says a lot about a person."

"What's Eames' favorite color?"

"Plaid," the forger replied easily.

"That's not a color," Arthur retorted.

Ariadne looked on from the smiling Englishman to the stoic point man. "See? It not being a color tells us exactly what kind of person Eames is."

"And that is?"

Dominic Cobb walked into the area, reading a manila folder of information. "A smartass." Eames' face dropped and everyone bustled back to their desks, laughing.

* * *

"I'm getting pretty tired of that bistro," he admits in a calculated casualness that he knows she'll pick up on. He switches the phone from one ear to the next as he unzips his luggage on his bed.

"Please!" he hears her trill with an aggravated sigh. She knows him too well that he should really consider how safe that is for his line of work. "Etamine's was the only place you wanted to go last time you were here." True. Every day he was there for his previous two-month stay, he always casually suggested that place. Then again, she was just too polite to point out why he possibly might want to go there.

"Yes, but since last time, I don't think that we should—" he begins with a carelessness that he even believes himself.

"Gabrielle doesn't work there if it's a problem." He has a stinking feeling that his precision is rubbing off onto her. He curses himself.

He doesn't say anything at first, but the weight of the silence bears onto them and she knows how to use it to her advantage. Arthur taught that to her too, he knows. She pointed it out once when they were training, how stoic he can be and matter-of-fact. Silence, he had told her at that point, was a useful tool in any point man's arsenal. Like a dreamscape, people naturally had the urge to fill up a vacuum of silence, subconsciously.

"She hated me that much?" he allows himself to ask, but even before the words leave his mouth he feels foolish. He can hear Ariadne's smile over the phone.

"Her education came before her waitress aspirations I'm afraid," she says rather politely, given the circumstances.

"Where is she now?" he can't help but ask turning away to hang up some of pressed shirts he pulls out.

"South Africa? Or South America? I can't remember. World traveler like yourself, you're bound to run into her."

His reply is rye as he looks over his shoulder suspiciously then before him as the hung shirts swing idly. "Thank you, but I'm staying put for right now."

"Got yourself a tail Mr. Charles?"

"More like, earned myself a vacation," he replies.

"People on vacations don't care about their shirts being put away."

Again he looks around as if she can see him. "People have fun in their own ways Ariadne."

"Fine, fine." She whistles over the end. "And when will I be graced with your presence?"

"As soon as I'm done unpacking."

"No. Skip folding your socks and lining up your days of the week skivs and come meet me at your favorite bistro."

"No. This is the best part of vacations. Don't deny me of it."

"You sure know how to have a good time Arthur."

"I'm having a ball, Ariadne." He picks up his socks out of his suitcase and his die rolls out onto the bed. He watches it carefully as it lands. "And I'll meet you in an hour. I know a place."

"Fine, but don't let your socks consume you. Even though it's not the same shade of black, they're really just two black socks."

He looks at the two looking at him. "Don't be a smartass," he jokes.

* * *

"I hate it here. It's like a tourist trap. Closerie des Lilas? It's like you want to write the next great American novel or something."

"What like Tom?" He asks jokingly, and Ariadne sticks her tongue out at him. Arthur looks around the bar. The orange glow of the lighting is comforting, the amount of patrons isn't too much, and the food smells delicious in the air. "I like it here," he determines, settling in.

"Figures," she shrugs and looks around, taking her red tweed coat off to hang on the back of her chair. The bartender makes his way over towards them and asks if they would like anything in perfect English. Ariadne, though appreciating his eye for the detail takes offense and replies in her best French, requesting a beer. Arthur quirks an eyebrow at her but replies in English, asking for the same.

"Oh please, he really doesn't need to assume that just because we were speaking English." Arthur turns to face her fully.

She looks down in shame. "That was passive aggressive of me wasn't it?"

"As a fellow American abroad, I'm surprised you don't have more pity for the man."

"We're going to have to tip him extra aren't we?"

"We?"

"You're the one who chose this place. Besides," she adds. "I become a regular at places like Etamine's for a reason, so they'll like me enough to cave when I have an emotional week or when it's my birthday."

Arthur just looks at her. "First, money isn't a problem for you since you decided to take on an illegal dream job that pretty much ensured you a debt free post-grad life, and second, you need to get out of your routine."

She tilts her chin downward and stares directly at him. "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

She points at her face. "Do you see this expression I'm making?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why I'm making it?"

He rolls his eyes and leans forward. "Because it's an odd thing, coming from me, to tell you to break out of a routine."

"Because it is a very odd thing for you to tell me to break out of a routine," she exaggerates before she leans back in her stool. "The chairs aren't as comfortable."

"They are different. Get over it."

Ariadne sits up when the bartender brings them their drinks, and Ariadne tells him thank you in plain English, smiling an apology for good measure.

"How's Tom?" Arthur asks, taking a swig of his drink. He doesn't hide the suspicion in his voice and he notices how forcibly blank Ariadne's face becomes at his question.

"Tom's fine," she replies.

"But he's not the reason you needed to talk?" He guesses. "Or the reason you're being rude to our bartender?"

She sags in her stool and literally deflates. "My internship ends next week."

Arthur looks over at her. "Any hope of hiring?"

She shakes her head. "No, but they did say that they were very pleased with my work and would highly recommend me when I need a reference," she says in a high voice. "Denis apologized that they couldn't find me a place."

"At least that's something."

"Of course."

"But?" He prompts.

She twiddles with her beer bottle between both hands and studies her fingers. "I read an article the other day that said that architecture was probably the worst thing to get a degree in."

He knows where this is going. "Ariadne—"

"It's true!" She pipes up. "Not many companies are shooting up skyscrapers and businesses don't need new designs when renovation would be cheaper. I haven't done anything but this internship to recommend me." Arthur gives her a look. "I don't have anything of substance I can show for myself."

"And you think that if you did something else, that you'd be better off?"

"Better off than I am now," she points out. "I want the opportunity to show those people who believed in me and who thought they saw something in me that they were right, that I am all those things that they helped encourage." She puts her beer bottle onto the bar top, still holding it's neck. "Is that completely selfish? To think that I mattered that much to them?"

"No. It's not." He feels taken aback by what he's hearing.

"Money's not an issue, which is amazing. Not many students can say they left grad school debt free."

"No. Not many."

"But, even then, I can't say that I'm doing fine."

"You have less of a worry."

"And that's nice. That's amazing. But it doesn't feel the same, being shut out."

"You're not." Arthur shakes his head, unable to register exactly how much conviction she lacks. This girl said months ago, with confidence, that she was strong enough to do something in the real world. This girl who folded Paris in half on her first go-round in shared dreaming. "Look," he says reasonably, "someone will want you. Someone will want to work with you and to make your vision real, and it will be substantial and there. It could be a skyscraper or a business or a stadium, but it could also be a small shop or a home or one of those houses you wanted to renovate when you started. You just can't keep thinking so negatively about it."

She nods, tight lipped.

"And even if you don't get to do that here, then who's to say that you can't do it back home or somewhere else? You've got plenty of time to figure out the way to get where you want. You just figured out the requirements. You're pretty much just starting out."

Ariadne takes a swig of her beer before turning to him. "Did you ever play _Life_?" She asks suddenly, placing her bottle back onto the counter. He can hear the thickness of her voice, but he ignores it and plays along.

"Yeah."

She spins her fingers around the wet circle her beer left on the bar top. "I always chose to go to college at the beginning."

"I did too," Arthur agrees.

"Despite the debt."

"Despite."

"And despite it not being real," she adds, watching him carefully.

"Of course."

"But man wouldn't it be nice if I did just win a singing contest for no reason or earned a house when I landed on the right square?" She asks, and he thinks about how he and Liz played as kids, ruthlessly challenging the other when it came to pay days and any sort of debt. After a pretty nasty game ending in tears for the banker, Liz, it was an agreed rule that his mother had to act as banker if they ever chose to play again. They never did.

"I always bought insurance," Arthur continues, looking into the distance. Liz often created fake types of insurance such as volcano insurance or clown mob insurance. Young and impressionable, he trusted his big sister and forked over hundreds of dollars in case of any of these impediments.

Ariadne faces ahead as well as she sips her beer. "Total rip off," she says.

"Yeah."

She turns her entire body to face him. "I feel like we played it wrong."

He nods before drinking the rest of his own drink. "We probably did."

* * *

Ariadne looked at herself in the small compact she held. She sighed and pulled the corner of her eye up to look a bit more awake. It was no use. The giant purple circles gave her away, and despite that, she nursed a heavy headache. She groaned, snapping the small plastic compact shut, only to see the forger leaned on one of the shelves in her area.

"Rough night?"

She shook her head and folded her arms, so she could cradle her head on the table. "I blame you for all of this, Eames." She groaned as she heard the Englishman slide a metal chair from the table, the rough noise against the cement floors grated to her sensitive ears. "What are the repercussions of Yusuf's chemical cocktail to a delicate mind?"

Eames laughed a throaty, genuine sound, and Ariadne heard the distinct noise of a small medicine bottle placed near her elbow. Lifting her head slightly, she grabbed it.

"That was all you sweetheart," he informed her as she twisted the childproof top off and dry swallowed two pills.

"I beg to differ," she said with a careless accusing finger as she swallowed. She placed her head back down. "You're the one who egged on those extra rounds of shots."

She listened as the forger tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "True, but I wasn't the one egging on those shots you and Arthur seemed to take part in during the football match." Ariadne rested her chin on her elbow to glare properly at the forger. He took heart in that and continued nonchalantly, barely looking at her. "What was it, dear Ariadne? A shot every time the opposing team took a dive?"

"What are you talking about?" She asked, her tone low with suspicion. Parts of the night, while vague in memory, were completely blank as far as thought process. She remembered sitting on the stool next to Arthur at the bar. They watched the match when the others went to play pool on the opposite end of the venue. She remembered she suggested the shots and she remembered she egged Arthur into them. Of course, she also remembered that it didn't take that much convincing to get the point man to join in. The dives were the players' fault. She thought they'd do better.

Eames brought her back with a Cheshire cat smile. "I saw you too canoodling in the corner."

She winced, trying to remember if they were in a corner. They were. She also remembered being highly aware of the team only a few feet away as Arthur's arm found its way around her shoulders. How she thought it was just right to rest her head on his shoulder when they agreed to stop drinking. She didn't think too much of it at the time.

"What's going on there Ariadne?" Eames asked with his eyebrows raised. "Inter office romance is something I do frown upon, especially if it is with Stick-in-the-Mud."

"Nothing's going on, Eames," she huffed, pulling her chin down. Despite herself, her voice was too forceful, sounding false even to her own ears. She thought about staying later at the bar, past Eames or Cobb or Yusuf, all who left, reminding the pair of their early morning the next day. Arthur promised to walk her to her building to which she insisted on their gender equality and offered to walk him to his building instead. They compromised and paid for each other's cab fare, parting amicably.

"Are you saying nothing happened last night?" Eames wheedled. "No lingering stares, pained pauses, or even a bit of snogging?"

Ariadne lifted her head again. "Eames." Her voice held warning, more than ninety-eight percent of her too tired and too hung over to cater patiently to the forger today.

Ariadne stood on the sidewalk in front of the bar, swaying slightly. Arthur pointed it out, grabbing her elbows to steady her.

Eames huffed. "First Arthur, and then you. It's not much fun making fun of you guys if you're too ill to even care."

Outside the bar, Ariadne looked up to face Arthur, smiling stupidly as she swayed. Arthur smirked right back, and Ariadne remembered thinking that she'd let him kiss her, if he tried. She wouldn't be remiss if he did it. She felt heady and excited and simply special in the most unromantic hold ever. Arthur's hands stayed steady on her elbows as she moved, inkling her head towards him, willing him to do it. Only, she felt that he wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't, and she chided herself for hoping it to be. She dropped her chin, pulling out of his hold with a simple step back. At the loss of contact, she saw his smirk dwindle to a feigned look of amusement as a cab pulled up. She hugged her arms against the night air.

"So you just punched him in the arm?" Eames asked, incredulous.

"Lightly," Ariadne stressed. "It was good-natured!" She insisted as Eames began to look dubious. "We're teammates. I wanted to show him that he did a good job on the drinking game," she faltered.

Eames stood and looked down at her, making her feel smaller than ever. "I feel like you did that wrong, pet."

* * *

"This is sort of frightening."

"It really is."

"And you just want to wait to the sidelines until they have everything?"

"Yes."

"What if there isn't anything left?"

"There will be, we're not animals. We're Americans."

She stands on top of one of the chairs, a camera in her hands as she snaps a photo. After judging the small screen, she turns to look at him, to see him sitting in the seat next to her. The top of his head brushes her a-line skirt. "Don't look up my skirt."

He turns from staring at the table, a simple smirk on his face. "Don't flatter yourself."

The dining room chairs are against the walls of a rather large room. The center table, a long rectangular oak affair has the fundamentals of a traditional Thanksgiving feast, takes up most of the room, though a long line of hungry Americans line up at two doors, ready for the buffet. Their chatter and chants fill the room along with the aroma of turkey and pumpkin.

Tom invited them to this hallowed hall. "A lighthouse in a country devoid of the Thanksgiving spirit," he explained as they walked from their avenue to his editor's house, Ariadne tucked under one arm and a bottle of wine in his hand, swinging. Ariadne's friends, Rebecca and Louis led ahead as Tom shouted directions for them, and Arthur followed beside or behind, depending on the traffic of the sidewalk, studying the couple despite himself.

According to Ariadne, they have been dating for two months now, going strong. Tom did end up calling her to show him around the city, and Ariadne was only too happy to oblige. Arthur thinks it the oldest trick in the book, and he ignores the fact that it was him who suggested it at first. But Tom continues to disprove Arthur's theories, being a gentleman, treating Ariadne fairly, even being mildly supportive of Arthur's relationship with her, though there are the looks.

The look he catches from Tom when he, Arthur, returns with Ariadne, hugging his arm. The look he sees when Ariadne makes a reference at dinner that only Arthur understands and is meant to understand. Tom will smile, benevolently, taking a drink or looking the other way momentarily, before turning back, brighter, fresher and a hint more forced than before. Arthur picks up on it, subtle as it is, but doesn't curb his relationship with Ariadne. A small part of him, he realizes a little jealously, feels inclined to act even more normal—as holding Ariadne's hand as they walk down the sidewalk sometimes is normal—because he knows Ariadne longest. The other, coherent part of his brain asks him why he does it when he supports Ariadne being happy.

Arthur never lingers on these thoughts, understanding how childish and unfair it seemed of him. He excused it as over-protectiveness and nothing more, swallowing down times when he means to tell Ariadne that Tom dislikes him or when he wants to take her out himself. It's not his concern anyway, he'll reproach.

"Arthur hasn't had a proper Thanksgiving in almost five years," Ariadne pointed out, looking cheekily behind her and Arthur nodded as Tom looked astounded.

Arthur spent many Thanksgivings out of the States, and because it's such a specific holiday to a specific country, he came to terms to ignoring it entirely. When he told Ariadne that he planned to be in Paris during the assigned day in November, she chided him for forgetting what it was and encouraged him to come with her to a proper feast, having squeezed out the truth from him.

Unlike most people, Arthur didn't view the holiday so cynically, having spent enough time out of the country to earn an appreciation for family get-togethers like Thanksgiving. Liz was probably slaving away in the kitchen with his aunt while his mother, Sam, and their uncle watched the parade on television.

"Well, you're in for it," Tom warned as they continued to march onward. "Everyone's going to be there. It won't be as cozy, but they're all good people."

According to Tom, his editor invited most of the staff of the small newspaper and their families, as long as they brought something to share. In front, Rebecca and Louis stopped, their hands intertwined and their breath foggy as they asked for more direction. "Parisian Original here," Rebecca said with a slight gesture of her head towards Louis, "is lost."

Tom calmly set them to rights, releasing Ariadne and studying the cross streets before deciding to cut across one block of fancy town homes. He brandishes his bottle of wine as a sort of baton to keep them in line.

"Excited?" Ariadne asked, pulling herself up to Arthur. She held her own bottle of wine like a baby, hugging it into her red tweed coat, and Arthur noted how she didn't hold his arm like they normally would.

"How can I not be?" He posed back, watching as Parisians, unknowing of the importance of this holiday, walked around the block. He saw the small cafes still open and people still coming home from work. Being a residential street, he could easily see through some of the windows without curtains or blinds as lights pop on. Families gathered to watch television in front of glowing screens, while down the street, a bus pulled up at a stop and people marched out. "Though it is pretty odd to do this in another country, where it isn't even a big deal," he noted as a bicyclist, loaded with groceries in her basket whizzed past.

"You and Cobb never did it?" Ariadne asked. "With how you two travel, I'm surprised you never at least acknowledged it."

"Yeah, well—" Arthur thought of how laxed he's actually become of this holiday, one of the few that his family truly enjoys, particularly because of Liz's cooking. He thought about how Thanksgiving slowly became a day rather than an event for him, much to Liz's disgust. Eventually, she stopped pushing it, understanding, in her own way, that Arthur chose to spend it with his friend and coworker as Cobb could bear it. "Cobb was pretty sensitive about family holidays, so it became a survival instinct to leave it alone."

She nodded, agreeing with him, when Rebecca and Louis overtook them, the former teasing the latter over his Thanksgiving ignorance.

"I'm not even American," he protested as they followed Tom up the steps to a townhouse. "Of course I don't understand it!"

Rebecca pulled him towards her. "But you're going to marry an American, so you might as well learn now." Ariadne's face dropped in surprise. "Oh." Rebecca looked bashful. "I wanted to wait until after to tell you." Ariadne didn't give her much time before grabbing her friend in her arms and hugged her, which was how Tom's editor found them when he opened the door.

It doesn't take long for the entire line of Americans to grab their food, and Ariadne and Arthur find themselves eating the traditional family meal standing to the side, as many of the other guests are doing.

"Rebecca and Louis," Ariadne says, holding a full plate of stuffing and turkey. "Who would've thought?" She balances a fork into her mouth, chewing the thought and the turkey over.

Arthur looks over at the pair talking to Tom. "I thought you said that they've been dating for a while now?

She remains unmoved, still looking at them, almost unblinking as she masticates. "Yeah, but they're the first people I know to get engaged after grad school. It's kind of uncomfortable."

"Why?" Arthur asks before taking a bite off his fork. "People get engaged. It's what happens after a long period of time."

"True," she allows, barely moving. "But, it doesn't feel like that much time has passed, not yet anyway." She blatantly stares at them, almost past them, Arthur's sure, but she blinks suddenly. She gives a warning, "Oh, they're coming," before shoving food into her mouth.

"Ariadne!" Rebecca greets giddily, a glass of wine in her clutches. She reaches over and hugs the unwilling architect. "Did I tell you why I'm thankful for you?" She sing-songs.

Ariadne holds her plate aloft to avoid Rebecca's hair. "Not recently, no," she says with an effort.

"Well, I am!" Her friend continues, and Arthur stifles the grin growing on his face. She pulls away and holds her drink up as if to give a toast. "I'm thankful for you, Ariadne, for having been there during grad school, mopping up my blood, sweat, and tears, and now for still being in my life—" soberly, Rebecca pulls Ariadne back into a less forceful hug, which Ariadne allows. "—and I'm sorry I didn't tell you about our engagement yet. I wanted to wait."

Ariadne pats her friend's back. "It's okay Rebecca."

"No! Are you mad at me?" She asks, and Ariadne laughs, even Arthur knows it's because of Rebecca's habit to ask this when she's had one too many. Over Rebecca's shoulder, Ariadne gives Louis wide eyes, signaling him to take her, and he comes to the rescue, suggesting they head home now.

"But I'm—" Rebecca starts, confused. She looks at Ariadne. "You're really not mad at me?" Arthur hides his expression with a fist, enjoying Rebecca's roller coaster of emotions.

"No Rebecca," she says with a smile, and Louis drags away his fiancée.

"Sorry about that," Tom says, taking a step to close the gap the two just exposed. "Everyone was doing it at that part of the room, and Rebecca decided that she just _had_ to tell you why she appreciated you."

"Well, as long as it's just that," Ariadne replies. "It's nice to hear it, I guess."

"Yeah, well, it's not as bad as what she said she appreciated about Louis," Tom points out and they laugh, understanding. Tom is about to say something else, when his editor waves him over, and he excuses himself to go talk to him, leaving Ariadne and Arthur holding their plates still standing there amidst a dining room of people.

The dining room is a bit crowded as people peck at the remnants of the table in front of them. Dessert plates are out and wine and brandy pop up at random, everyone getting a share no matter that they don't know one another. Many toasts are made to random American symbols, and as time pasts, the toasts are made much ruder but funnier. It's when they're stuffed that she takes the seat next to him on the sidelines of the room.

He's full. Despite his reserve, he leans back in his seat, feeling content. He texted Liz and his mother his best regards, giving a quick explanation of the group he fell upon for the holiday, and Liz sent back what seemed to be a slurred reply, excessive with typos, saying how cheered she was by his not being alone!

Maybe it's the food, or the cozy atmosphere or the sifter of cognac he just had, or maybe it's acknowledging a holiday that seemed so taboo before, but Arthur turns to Ariadne, smiling genuinely. "Thanks for forcing me to come," he says. He straightens in the seat slightly but sleepily rests his head against his shoulder to face her.

She nods, her cheeks rosy from wine and starch, and she stoops to put her dessert plate onto the floor under her chair. She's been by his side all night, toasting the flag, the Green Bay Packers, and Walt Disney with extreme candor, and Arthur sees how hyper she is, thanks to the extra servings of potatoes she insisted on. "Okay," she announces in a business-like fashion. She rubs her hands against one another. "So I should probably already do this," she says, pulling her legs up under her skirt. He notes the hand-turkey stuck to her collared shirt but says nothing, already noting a few other adults with similar turkeys on their buttonholes.

He smiles contentedly, unknowingly. "Okay..."

"I'm thankful for you," she begins and Arthur feels his face turn red, "because you're around, despite your travels. You're dependable and always there—" There's an uproarious laugh form the other side of the room that distracts her momentarily, and Arthur's thankful.

"I sound like a TV reporter or a dog," he interrupts. "Do we have to do this?" He asks, squirming under the attention. She watches the slight flick of his fingers at his tie, straightening it somewhat.

"Shhh—you're easy to talk to and have taught me a lot from dreaming, to life, to anything."

Arthur doesn't look at her but fiddles with his tie some more. "Thanks," he mumbles, looking down, and she slaps his hands to get his attention.

"It's what the day's for," she insists sharply.

"Okay, well, I kind of don't want to." He looks around uncomfortably, studying the various people mingling around from the Americans to the few Parisians invited to the do, his previous comfort dissolved.

Ariadne sits back in her seat, kicking her feet out. "Then don't," she says, and she avoids saying it with malice but with genuine compassion, understanding Arthur's reservations.

He sighs in defeat and faces her. He inhales sharply, grabbing her shoulder to get her attention. How he's sitting, he has to look up at her, and he drops his hands as he braves it like a band-aid. "But I want you to know that I'm thankful that you brought me here," he reiterates. He stops organizing his thoughts slowly, gaining unknown momentum as he continues. "It's a two way street when I'm traveling, because I like having you to talk to, and I want you to know that it's been better because of you." He stops again, unable to push down that grin popping up all evening. "All of it has been better because of you," he adds earnestly, watching her carefully.

Ariadne looks at him, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips as she reaches over to pull him into an unwilling hug. He refuses at first but she teases him, before letting go. She gives him an extra squeeze, and he barely hears it as she pulls away, "Thanks."

* * *

"What exactly are you doing?" Arthur asked, looking from the chemist to the architect lounging at Eames' desk. His tone was deadly serious, helped with this particular suit he chose to wear today and the severity of his combed back hair.

"Research?" Ariadne supplied helpfully, her hands poised with a few kernels of popcorn ready to enter her mouth. The other hand rested atop a metal bowl, courtesy of Yusuf's lab, on her lap. Her legs stretched out before her on a spare chair.

"It looks like you guys are watching movies," Arthur pointed out. He looked from the lap top screen to the guilty trio. The screen paused on Keanu Reeves' face.

"Because we are," Eames added, though for him, he does have the courtesy to simper. His reply earned him glares and tossed popcorn in his direction. "What?" he demanded. He flays his arms against the kernel attack. "It's none of his damn business what we're doing anyway."

"Don't be an idiot Eames," Ariadne advised, wasting more popcorn on him.

Arthur didn't even spare a smirk. "It is if you guys are slacking on the job," Arthur bit out. He stared them down individually. His entire demeanor screamed respect and authority.

"Calm down," Yusuf said, though he immediately regretted it. Arthur looked as if he was about to cut him in half. "We're doing research," he added meekly.

"Research?" His tone of voice let them know what he thought of that excuse.

"Yes," Ariadne piped up. All the men stared at her. "We're watching car routes to get an idea of what we'll need for Yusuf's dream layout."

Arthur studied her with acute attention. He looked straight in her face, noting the curves of her lip and where her eyes pointed. She was, weird as it was to even consider, telling the truth. He felt a little deflated. "Is that really necessary?" He asked. He gave a pointed look at Keanu on the screen.

"Yes." Her tone held a challenging quality to it, one that surprised the men sitting around her, and Arthur debated his next course of action as the air around them fizzled with attention.

"Carry on?" Eames supplied, cutting through the staring contest.

Arthur sagged. When he realized his mistake, he saw Ariadne's face brighten immediately, no longer the challenger she just was.

He knew that he had to choose his battles. He also knew that the architect was a stubborn woman. He decided to turn on his heel, waving away this issue with a feckless wave. "Shut up Mr. Eames."

"You're always welcome to join Artie boy!" Eames said with a laugh.

Arthur didn't look back, but he heard the distinct pitter-patter of kernels being tossed and the scrape of the chair against the cement floor. He felt the small tap on his shoulder after he heard his name called out.

He turned to face her, her smiling right before him. "You haven't been out with us recently," she said without an introduction. "You didn't have fun last time?"

"I did," he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I just—" He looked at her expectant face, her wide eyes attentive to his response— "I just think that we're getting lax when this is a job."

Ariadne pshawed that. "We're teammates, Arthur. We're team building. How can we trust each other if we don't know one another?"

"And watching _Speed_ is team building?"

"Well," she said with a scratch of her head, "we are watching together."

He rolled his eyes.

"But are you okay?" She seemed twitchy, looking past him and at him in quick succession. "After the night we all went out together, you seemed, different. We haven't talked in a while."

Arthur figured this would happen soon, this question. He never knew Ariadne to shy away from anything, so why would she start now?

Two weeks ago, when he was roped into happy hour with the rest of them, drinking and watching football with Ariadne at the bar, he never drank so much in his life. Maybe his inner gentleman simply couldn't let her offered drinks go to waste, or maybe her slight tipsiness made him jealous, but he did his best to keep up with her, especially when she introduced that drinking game.

Eames, the next day, was all over him for being all over their architect, the Englishman's ill choice of words. And despite Ariadne or Arthur's words to the contrary, Eames took it upon himself to make work in the warehouse a living hell for Arthur: providing commentary when he or Ariadne were within ten feet of one another or seemed to be alone talking, which was rare these days. Arthur didn't enjoy the push so much, and it took away the camaraderie he was beginning to enjoy with the small architect.

"I'm sorry." The words come out without warning, and Arthur cannot understand them himself.

"Yeah? For what?"

Good question. He was sorry that he kept away from her. He missed talking to her. He was sorry that he let Eames get to him like that. It was just Eames after all. He was especially sorry, because, right outside the bar, when they waited for a cab, he was disappointed when she hit him playfully on the shoulder, like he was her brother.

"For avoiding you for the past two weeks," he explained, settling on that answer.

She deflated slightly and she narrowed her eyes, studying his face for cracks on the surface. Luckily for him, he was well trained against this sort of scrutiny. "It's fine Arthur. I'll tell them to stop the movie."

"No. It's not that. It's—" He stopped suddenly to gather his thoughts, before continuing in a calmer tone, "—I've been on plenty of jobs with Cobb. I'm happy he got you for this one."

Her face broke out into a small beam of a smile. Her teeth exposed and her lips stretched upward. "Thanks Arthur," she said, genuine emotion tinting her words. She was about to hug him, he could tell. Her arms reached out in his direction, but he stopped her suddenly.

He nudged her arm with his fist in a light punch. "Don't mention it."

* * *

**A/N: **I want to take a second to thank the Guest reviewer, bells-mannequin, Shanyde, and ticking-clocks8 for their encouraging reviews! You guys are awesome and made my day when I read the notifications. Thanks to all of those following and favoriting as well!

I also want to apologize for the long wait for this chapter. Hopefully you guys like it!

Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

She plops into the seat across from him, dropping her fist near his plate. It clinks against the china before falling onto the tablecloth. "Here." It's said so casually like it's something he should know about or as if they were talking this entire time.

He doesn't touch it. "What is it?"

"A key." She waves the waiter over, turning in her seat. "Only this time, you can keep it," she says.

He reaches over and picks it up for study. It's heavy and pocked gold, worn and marked from use. The center of the head is overlapped with stickers and scribbles, the cleanest sticker on top has her apartment number written in smeared pen. It's the key he used when he stayed with her for two months. Only now he doesn't leave it under her floor mat after he closes her door. This one is his to keep.

While he studies it, the waiter takes her order. "Have we reached that point in our relationship?" He asks, holding it up. "Do I get a drawer and everything?"

She turns back to face him, handing the waiter her menu. "Yes Arthur. You're free to leave some of your crap at my place when you travel, because I decided that you won't abuse the power of having an extra key to my apartment."

He lifts a brow in question, pausing in his study to ask, "such as?"

"Such as eating all of my food, running up my electricity bill, or even stealing my furniture," she replies primly.

"Have any of those things actually happened?" The waiter arrives with a small cup of coffee and a pain au chocolat for her.

She shrugs, thanking the waiter and picking up her pastry. "I know you're leaving soon, but I figured that it might be nice for you to at least have roots now, if only the semblance of some." She takes a bite before wiping off the flaky crumbs from her chin.

"I do have roots," he can't help but point out.

She picks up her coffee and lightly blows on the surface. "Just say thank you Arthur," she says, taking a sip.

Arthur still studies the key. A commitment. A home. Odd how those things, unremarkable as they are, aren't things he ever saw for himself. Taking that first job, he didn't understand what he signed up for. He didn't see the endless nights of work, the lives on jeopardy, or even his life being consumed by a job. And yet here is an extended hand of stability, so easily and readily given. He always assumed that getting out of his routine of travel and work would be harder than this. It should be harder than this.

A job like his doesn't come without hardships or enemies. Forget the jet-lag and the lies, an illegal job like his comes with enemies and revenge, debts, and, most of all, addiction. A job like his is too good-to-be-true because it costs the normal segues of life, like being social, having friends, talking to your family, and having a home.

Arthur wonders if he can step back from all of it. If having roots is even possible, because it's a trade off essentially. If not a home and a regular happy hour bar, then maybe a world where cathedrals and mazes and pagodas exist, where everyday is different and everyday is a new puzzle to solve.

Arthur joined the job early on in life. Straight out from college, he had no where else to go, and there's a sinking fear in his gut asking him what exactly would he do, if he didn't have this? What else would he have?

A home, he knows. He'd be able to see Liz, see Sam grow up, talk to his mom more often. He doesn't know what roots feel like. He just knows he wants some, and he feels himself appreciate the small woman before him even more. "Thank you Ariadne," he says, pocketing the key, "truly." One of his genuine smiles comes out, stretching from ear to ear. His eyes squint as he does so.

"You're welcome Arthur," she says with a flourish of her pastry.

"And it's nice that you do it the day I decide to leave for two months. Tactful," he adds, jokingly snide.

"Yeah, well I'm nothing if not tactful. Just don't make me regret this."

He grabs her coffee to take a sip himself, and Ariadne makes a snatch but is too slow to stop him. "But I have a buyer for that armoire already," he adds fiendishly finishing her cup.

* * *

Maurice Fischer was dead, and as soon as Arthur heard the news, he called Cobb but got no answer. Unfazed, he called Saito, who asked him to meet him at the warehouse, and it was there that they found Ariadne and Cobb in a furiously muffled argument, staring at one another as if they expected lasers to shoot from their eyes.

The two were extremely close recently. Arthur saw the intrigue in Ariadne's expression as she watched the lead extractor during the day. Her eyes drifted towards Cobb in a way that made Arthur start. She never said anything, never asked anything deliberately except for their first lesson, but her acute attention towards his friend, made Arthur uneasy. Ariadne was like Cobb, easily susceptible to the intriguing nature of a puzzle, and he wasn't a doozy. He noticed his friend's steady descent into instability for months now, and warily but maybe too readily, he accepted Cobb's assurances of having it under control. He hated to see what out of control looked like.

Ariadne, however, impetuous, naïve, and too stubborn to accept the silent agreement among the men that Cobb was indeed fine, continued to watch the extractor. Arthur saw her veiled eagerness when Cobb's past was brought up in vague terms from any of them: Yusuf's slight allusions at lunch over his late meetings with Cobb, Eames' mentions of Mal, and even his own remarks over their past jobs together. Yet they kept everything relatively unspoken, either because they disliked speaking about emotions or perhaps because Saito was so prevalent in this job—an unusual, yet almost endearing facet of their backer—which meant that Cobb's instability needed to be a secret. Though, to his credit, Cobb kept everything close to the chest, despite the cracks surfacing.

Not Ariadne, however. Watching Cobb consumed her, like he was a maze she could solve. Arthur saw how late she started to stay at the warehouse, saw how often she lingered near Cobb's station. He read into it more than he should have, and he felt almost slightly put off by her attention towards his friend, more than he'd like to admit anyway.

Maurice Fischer was dead, they announced, entering the room, they had to act now, and as the news struck, Arthur watched with unflinching eyes as Ariadne spoke to Cobb. His friend's face remained completely calm, but across the room he saw the strain in Ariadne's face, saw the tension in her posture. It was then that Arthur watched Cobb do the stupidest thing he could do at that moment: he asked Saito for another seat on the plane.

For that split second, Arthur's heart stopped as he looked from Ariadne to Cobb, both looked like they swallowed bitter pills, determinedly. It was after Ariadne left to pack and Saito went to call Eames that Arthur pulled Cobb roughly aside, demanding to know what happened, why this change in plans was necessary as if a curve ball was a good idea at this time in this job. Arthur whispered furiously, reeling in his emotions as he formed his argument, preparing to strike, and all his old friend did was remain annoyingly calm. Cobb was focused on the job and focused on his children, nothing about the innocent girl he roped into this world, nothing about the trouble this new facet would bring.

"I trust her," Cobb said with a lilt of finality and the steely look his friend gave him made Arthur pause for a moment. Cobb did little to enforce his authority. He demanded professionalism and respect simply by acting that way, usually. It was at that moment that Arthur realized he was not talking to his friend anymore. He spoke to his boss. Cobb looked away, steely, silent, stoic, and Arthur knew that no further questions against his authority would be accepted.

"Fine," Arthur relented, reigning in his emotions quickly, leaving words unsaid. He began to walk away. "Just don't make me regret this," he warned, leaving Dominic Cobb standing in the hallway.

* * *

The rookie's a natural, Arthur admits as he watches the young man subtly work the gallery room of projections, using his charm and natural personality to talk lightly, joking almost with them. The dream is stable and calm, perhaps because of Stewart's effervescent charm and ease, and Arthur decides to take a hallway off to the side of the gallery, watching Eames' projections carefully as Arthur mingles around them. As part of the rookie's training, Trevor suggested a final extraction from a trained brain, and being a proper target, Stewart asked Arthur's help in extracting the thief.

In his periphery, Arthur senses quick, agile movements, too agile for their gallery setting, and immediately, he walks into one of the spare side galleries, still underdevelopment, a neat trick on Stewart's part to keep some of the messy fighting away from the calm he tends to work best in. Arthur pushes back a plastic tarp draped over some metal escalades that reach towards the stealing. It's dustier in here, the walls are unpainted, and cartons of hay hang open. Sawdust and spare tools litter the ground. He makes his way through, carefully stepping to not make a sound, when he realizes that he lost his tail. Odd. He looks around, listening carefully for spare scrapes of feet along the floor. There's nothing.

Untrusting the stillness, he makes his way through the construction until he finds an out back into the gallery, where the lively chatter of projections almost puts him at ease. He eyes the room carefully, searching for Stewart, and he pats the gun in his breast pocket for reassurance, straightening his collar. Odd how he has yet to spot Eames, but he guesses that, knowing the thief, if someone were to extract him, the Englishman would simply adopt a new face, rather than lead them to the vault.

He starts to study the faces of the projections around him, looking for unwarranted actions or a direct return of eye contact to give the thief away, but there's nothing. He even tries to spot one of the stock characters Eames cooks up on jobs: the blonde, the child, an old man. None. The forger's good, he'll give them that, but he's just not—Arthur freezes in his tracks. It couldn't be.

He feels the subtle shift of the ground from under him, because there's no mistake who he sees. There's no mistake when his heart stops.

Conscious of his breathing, he focuses on her, forgetting the setting, forgetting the job. There's no doubt about whom it is, when he notices the wave to her brown hair, her small stature, the way she stands as she faces one of the paintings. She turns slightly, and Arthur already knows the curve of that chin, the familiar scarf she wears, a favorite of hers. She turns slightly to hand Stewart a small gold key, pocked and tinted with age. Arthur can see from where he stands that in the center sits overlapping stickers with scribbles. The final, dominant white sticker on top has something scribbled on it, and it's when Arthur busies himself by focusing on it, that Eames comes forward, a small smile on his face. The thief joins the small circle of conversation, taking the key from Stewart's hand to read it, his features morphing into surprised amusement before making direct eye contact with Arthur across the room, smug.

In one swift movement, Arthur pulls his gun from the holster under his jacket. The point man doesn't flinch when he shoots the Englishman in the head.

Eames finds him later that evening, when Trevor and Stewart left for the day, tiptoeing around Arthur as they said their goodnights. Though, ever the professional, the point man doesn't let his annoyance show.

The warehouse is almost dark, save for a few hanging bulbs and the small desk lamp in front of Arthur emitting white light, making everything look gravely clinical around him. Arthur's station is tidy with a few chalkboards on wooden stands surrounding him, each decorated with print outs of information, news clippings, and written out plans. His lone desk sits against the cement wall, which Eames leans against to the left of his desk.

"It's a training exercise Arthur. There's no need to get huffy," Eames says easily, and Arthur continues to ignore the forger, tapping furiously away on his laptop. "Though, I will admit, that when it was me you two had planned, I know was just as upset."

He looks up then, his fingers suspended over the keyboard. "I knew you were the one who suggested it."

The thief shrugs. "Once I knew, the entire exercise would have been moot. It was either you or Trevor."

"And you were just too eager to have me weren't you?" Arthur asks bitterly.

Eames laughs. "You have to admit, the entire plan was just too good to be true." When Arthur doesn't respond, Eames sobers. He drops his arms to his sides. "It's funny, out of all the dirt I was hoping to get on you, I didn't think I'd run into her." It's said quietly, almost sincerely for the thief at least, and Arthur understands the soft spot Eames developed for the small architect, despite it being a blip of interaction years ago. "She's still doing well?" He asks. He laughs to himself with a shake of his head. "We didn't ruin her for reality?"

Arthur doesn't look at him. "I'd ask who, but that would be petulant," he says instead. It being the only way he can respond fairly. "Let's just not talk about it."

"If you'd like," Eames responds, stepping off of the wall and readying to leave. "Only—" he begins, and Arthur looks up at him to see sincerity or at least seriousness in his usual jocular expression. "You know it's possible, right?" Eames finishes off quietly.

Arthur perks his ears but remains cold. "What do you mean?"

"A life without this," Eames explains with a small gesture of his head, and Arthur understands what information Stewart was able to extract. The key from her, what Eames speaks of, everything adds up, and while it is entirely embarrassing to have one's laundry out for one's teammates, Arthur is almost too tired to fight this truth. A part of him takes Eames' words readily but a larger part of him fights it. "Escape is easier than you may think," Eames says. "Cobb did it."

"Yeah," Arthur replies, unable to shield the acerbity from his tone, "but you forget that Cobb had a family who waited for him."

"Yeah?" Eames lifts a brow. "Well," he says thoughtfully, "from what I've seen, he's not the only one."

* * *

She reads with Tom on the weekends. As he tip-taps on his laptop at the kitchen table with printed pages all around him, she lounges in the middle of his sheets with a book.

The apartment is one quaint, airy space. High windows allow in natural light and a sense of the rainy air from outside. The walls are clear of much décor except for the few embossed panels and chair rail. There are even a few columns with embossed floral designs at the top. She loves his apartment. She loves waking up in it and staying there for the entire day doing practically nothing but waiting, waiting to hear back from firms or contacts, waiting for her friends to get out of work, waiting for the sun to set just right, so she can watch it dip behind the horizon, past the architecture in her favorite way. She feels as if she is doing something staying in his apartment, rather than moping around her own.

She rolls from one side to the other as she turns the page of her book, and she hears Tom's voice over her shoulder. "What's with Arthur?" The question feels out-of-the-blue, and she looks over to read his expression.

They've spoken about Arthur tons of times. Despite having met him that first night, Tom remains convinced that he missed something in their history when Ariadne merely told him that she and Arthur were coworkers and now really good friends. Granted, her vague explanation was everything noncommittal, but what safe way would there be to tell him how they've known one another longer in dreams than in reality? How would she say that she trusts Arthur with her life without saying she had to at one point? Instead, she insists that they are good friends, a description that falls flat even on her own ears and does no one any justice.

Good friends, however, as Tom points out, don't act like they do around one another, and Tom admits to feeling almost a third-wheel when they are all together. To Tom's credit, he seemingly accepts Ariadne's breezy explanation and insistences of her strong friendship with Arthur, and the subject drops for a time.

"What do you mean?" She asks, rolling onto her other side to face her lover. She bunches the crisp sheets over her. "He's fine."

"Arthur moves around a lot, right?" Tom poses from the kitchen table. He looks straight-out-of-bed rumpled in front of his computer. His hair manages to stick up despite gravity and his eyes still sag sleepily. "He never seems to be in the same place that long, other than here. You'd think he'd have family to go to," Tom observes, and Ariadne doesn't note suspicion or accusation in his voice, only observation.

"He has family in New York," she says. "With his line of work though, he can't see them that often."

"A business consultant can't go home even for holidays?" Tom poses. He stops typing. "I think he likes to move around. It becomes a matter of letting your work consume you or having that desire to have a personal life. Arthur seems to forget that he needs to let go. You're a good friend to be there for him, despite when he seems to forget you. You guys lose contact all the time, and yet, when he comes back, it's as if he never was gone."

She stretches out thoughtfully, placing her book open-faced onto the mattress. "I think Arthur just likes having familiarity to go to. He doesn't have a home of his own," she says. "And having worked with him before, I can see how work can easily takeover for him. He's very detail-oriented."

"That's just it," Tom argues. "He's too content moving around and having life pause for him till he comes back. He doesn't have a home, but you let him use yours. You're enabling him."

Ariadne shrugs, carefully calculating her movements and expression. "He just needs a bit of familiarity, Tom," she insists.

"He needs to stop relying on you to be there for him," Tom responds all too quickly. "He needs to understand that his lifestyle is his choice, and that he can't simply pack up and leave people. You were upset the last time he did, the time he stayed and only left a note, remember?"

She winces slightly at the memory. "Yes. I was upset, but I've come to terms with Arthur's marauding. It's part of him, and I get that. I just want to be there for him if he needs me."

"You have to realize that you might not always be there for him." And it's quiet after he says it, like all the air left the room. Ariadne sits up, holding the sheet over her.

"You think that Arthur's the reason, I'm saying no, aren't you?" She asks, suspiciously. Tom's last sentence rings in her ears, and she focuses acutely on him.

He closes his laptop to give her his full attention. "Rebecca and Louis couldn't be more happy for you when I mentioned it. They were surprised—"

"I never told them," she interrupts.

"Exactly," he says as if she fell right into his theory. "You never told anyone about it. It's an amazing opportunity Ariadne, and I think it works out perfectly for us. You have to at least think about it rather than shutting it off. You're pretty free from what I can tell." Tom stares her down, until she looks away first. He says something about heading out soon and shuffles all of his papers into a stack before heading to the bathroom.

Ariadne scratches the back of her neck out of irritation, and then slumps into the pillows. She doesn't mention Arthur's key.

* * *

"I'm not saying that you're incapable, but I think you're being brash here."

"He needs me, Arthur. You didn't see what I saw!"

"Maybe if you'll tell me then," he said reasonably, and Ariadne felt a stunning horrible feeling in her stomach. She knew she couldn't say anything to him, Arthur, who she shared everything with. He was the best person to handle this, the only person who knew Cobb better than anyone in the team, and yet, she knew that it wasn't her secret to tell.

She stood there, looking at him, lost and unaware of the best course of action. Her suitcase sat open mouthed on her bed, her armoire open, clothes hanging out of it. Arthur stood in the disarray of her bedroom, clean cut and shaven as she always knew him to be, but against her world, he's made more pristine. It didn't help her argument at all.

In anticipated awe, she opened her front door to him, and in stoic fashion, he followed her to her bedroom where she packed. He hardly said a word before she opened her mouth to defend herself.

"I'll talk to Saito," he said, making the decision for her. "You won't be on that plane to Australia in the morning."

"No. I don't want that," she said with difficulty. She looked at her bags on her bed.

He didn't press it, but she felt him study her. "What is it Ariadne? What's going on that you're not telling me?"

There was an endless pause, one that Ariadne understood to be pure tactic on his part, and she refused to spill. Though it unnerved her. It ate at her conscience and made her think of a proper response anyway, one which would stop his staring and stop this mindless silence.

"It's not my secret to share, Arthur," she said quietly. "It's Cobb's issue, and I'm coming to help." With renewed determination, she met his gaze.

Arthur stood there, studying her, and she did her best to stand up straighter, to act unflinching under his assessment. "I'm going," she said, determination rising in her voice unforced.

The way his eyes changed at that, the way his stance morphed into action rather than assessment. He was calculating, choosing the best course of action. In this case, it was the easiest course. "Fine."

"Fine?" She questioned, surprise clear in her voice.

"Yes," he replied, hardened. "But you're staying close to me on the first two levels, and you can't play hero."

"Fine."

When he didn't step away, Ariadne saw that he wanted to say more. She let the silence grow, unmoving, until Arthur came to a conclusion. "Cobb's a professional. He has it under control," Arthur said. "He doesn't need help."

She knows this argument too well. "Cobb may say lots of things, but we both know he says things he doesn't mean."

And Arthur almost laughed at that, but he remained steely. "You can't always be there for him, Ariadne. There will come a point when he'll have to do it on his own."

"I know," she admitted. "I just need to be there when I can."

Arthur's last words before leaving the apartment were his reminder that he'd pick her up in the morning before their flight, and he saw himself out, taking all of the argument, the noise, and the tumultuousness with him. It was eerily still when her door closed with a click.

She stood in her hallway and looked around. It dawned on her that it was the first time Arthur stepped into her apartment. She didn't have to wonder on how he knew where it was or how he got there. He just did those things. She left it at that.

* * *

"You've been spending an awful lot of time in Paris," Liz says over the phone. Arthur makes his way to the cabs out of the front of the airport, tired from work and travel. He hears the distant sound of children yelling and knows that he caught Liz at the park with Sam.

"There are worse places to be," he replies and he waits for Lizzie to stop yelling directions at his nephew before he pulls the phone back to his ear.

"Yes, but for you, one place four times in under a year?" She asks. He imagines she's struggling with her purse and Sam's backpack, rifling for something. She's always in constant movement, never settling, almost like him to a lesser degree. "Who's the girl?"

"Why does there always have to be a girl?" He asks with a hollow laugh. "Why can't I just be happy in Paris?"

All movement on her part stops, and for once Arthur can feel his sister's attention directly at him. "You see, it's funny, because when you avoid the question, you answer it."

* * *

He sits on the couch watching her from the living room as she makes dinner. Her head bent low, the pots and pans loud as she positions them on the stove. She makes a mess of the ingredients. Boxes are left open, eggshells with yoke slide along, and crumbs cover the counter. "Ariadne, maybe we should talk about this?" He asks.

"What's there to talk about?" she poses right back, her voice oddly high pitched. She avoids his eyes. "I did give you the key for whenever you were in town. It's my fault for forgetting about it, two months ago." He wonders if she adds the time separation out of bitterness or out of personal thought. Still, he feels a slight pang at her tone, at how easily she forgot his key.

He walks up to the kitchen counter that separates her living room from her kitchen. "You're being irrational."

"Irrational?" She repeats with a hollow laugh. "You never tell a woman she's being irrational. It's a trigger word you want to avoid for the future."

He smiles. "Noted."

"And I'm fine," she says, meaning she's anything but. "Just fine. Fine!" She opens the bag of rice and empties it into the pan. It sounds frenzied. The pitter and patter of each grain falling onto the metal sounds almost like rain.

"Really?" He asks patiently waiting for the noise to recede.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah!" She nods along and briefly looks up at him before returning to her work.

"So you're fine that I just accidentally walked in on you—"

"In my underwear," she takes up. "We can say it Arthur. We're two grown adults. Underwear is part of one's everyday wardrobe." She brandishes a ladle as if to prove her point.

"Dancing," he adds, failing to withhold the smile coming to his lips.

"In my underwear, dancing. I got it." She huffs, and Arthur can't stop the smile from his memory of opening the door to her apartment, music blaring, to Ariadne hopping around the living room without pants.

"I'm an unemployed woman, who uses her free time dancing in her underwear. I guess we caught up on what we missed since our separation!"

He watches her steady the pots onto the stovetop. "Ariadne? Are you okay?"

She scratches her head and places her hand on hip in a surrendered type of gesture. "I am if you are."

He laughs casually, trying to make light of the situation. "Who walks around their apartment partially naked?"

She stops everything she's doing to look right at him. "The sole occupant of the apartment! That's who!"

* * *

Denis helps her get a few temporary jobs around the city, doing mild consulting or mindless order-taking from higher ups. They're quick jobs, though some can be as long as two weeks, even then the hours aren't full days. They don't match up to her work with Denis, and she's unable to act as freely creative as she craves. Instead, she fills in jobs that need to be done, monotonous chores given to her despite her degree and references. She bides her time impatiently, that same feeling crawling back when she thought she mastered it properly.

Denis is cheerfully optimistic when they meet up for coffee during his lunch break.

"I'm sorry I can't help you further along," Denis says regrettably. "You're worth more than these small jobs I can find you."

Ariadne shrugs meekly, her arms tight together in her lap. "It's fine."

"No. I'm not from here, so I don't have as much regard, I suppose." He carries his tea by the rim of the cup, swigging it between his clawed fingers. "Why not ask Miles for more help? He said wonderful things about you when he first recommended you."

She shakes her head. "That seemed a long time ago, and I'd hate to burden him. I feel horrible enough already bothering you."

Denis tilts his head, still assessing her. "It's not a bother trying to help you Ariadne. We want to do it."

"Oh yeah?" She poses, fiddling with the fork in front of her. "So my endless e-mails and countless phone calls aren't bothersome?"

"No. It would bother me if I found out you stopped trying," Denis says with finality. He sips the rest of his coffee, slurping almost rudely before he places it back onto the table. "Me, Miles, whoever," he reels off with a contented smile, "you're doing us proud simply by trying."

* * *

"Arthur!" Tom greets as he comes into the restaurant. He shakes his hand as he comes up to the table, and he takes a seat next to Ariadne, pecking her on the cheek. His hair is messily curly, his button up loosely fitted and opened at the neck, his sleeves rolled up. He holds his coat on the crook of his arm, and he takes off his messenger and dumps it unceremoniously on the ground.

"How was work?" Ariadne asks, smiling, looking from Arthur to Tom.

Tom nods, looking at the sheet card menu. "Good, stressed, but good." Arthur sees Tom as chaotic from his frenzied movements to his lackadaisical way of dressing. There's a self-consciousness that Arthur takes to be forced on Tom's part, either because of Arthur's presence or because of his own character, Arthur can't say. "Man, there was a spelling crisis for the word peak today." Tom laughs at the joke, before sobering when he sees Arthur and Ariadne's expectant, polite faces. "Have you guys ordered?"

"No, but we already know what we want," Ariadne explains.

"I'll be quick then," Tom vows before going back into the menu. "So where have you been recently Arthur?" He asks without looking up from his menu.

"Venice," Arthur replies. At Tom's impressed expression, he continues, "Yeah, business takes me to some pretty interesting places." He looks at Ariadne and she smiles knowingly.

"How long were you there for?" Tom asks.

Arthur thinks of the month there, helping to train a rookie extractor with Trevor and Eames. The job was for Saito; Trevor and Arthur, apparently being his go-to dream connections when necessary.

In front of Tom he explains the consulting work he does, going into vague specifics that he thinks will suffice and sound boring enough that will change the subject soon. "I'm actually thinking about switching businesses," he adds, which catches everyone's attention.

Ariadne's eyes slightly go up at this, and Tom looks shocked but impressed. "Really?" He asks. "Right now? You seem to really like your job."

Arthur smirks. "It is. I've seen things that people can only dream of—" Ariadne smiles, looking down at the table. "—But it's time to start settling down now. The last firm I worked with was very happy with my business. He offered me a job a few years ago, and I'm thinking about taking him up on it."

"A few years ago?" Tom asks in disbelief. "Are you sure it would still be available?"

"Yeah, he mentioned it on this past venture, and I'm pretty sure I want to take him up on it."

"Give up your nomadic ways?" Ariadne teases. Arthur sees the slight exchange of looks between the couple. "Settle down?"

"Where else will Ari get postcards?" Tom asks as the waiter starts to come back to take their orders.

"My foreign correspondence has been pretty lax of late," Arthur admits. He turns to Ariadne. "You still have those up?"

She shrugs, stirring her drink with the small black straw. "I like them. They make me feel grown-up."

"When she's done playing temp, I'll catch her staring at them," Tom adds jokingly, but Arthur notices the slight freeze of Ariadne's face at Tom's words. She plays it off naturally, looking down at her menu.

"There's an incredible amount Arthur, exactly how often do you travel?" Tom asks, unnoticing, and Arthur is about to answer the question but fields it by addressing the oncoming waiter.

* * *

"Wait. You're moving to Paris?"

When they spoke at dinner about him settling, he never mentioned where. He tactfully avoided many of the straightforward questions from Tom, and Tom, being polite, didn't pursue the subject. Afterwards, they hung around the front of the restaurant, talking, until Tom admitted to having an early morning. Arthur dutifully pretended to have a phone call as Tom and Ariadne said good-night, before Ariadne started off for her own apartment, where Arthur is staying.

They walk across the bridge to get back to her apartment. In the distance the champagne lights flicker within the Eiffel Tower, a sight he has yet to tire of. "Why not?" he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Saito offered me a position, a real one, part of his business."

She shrugs, bracing her arms across her chest, clearly her burgundy tweed coat not enough to block the cold. He hears that a light snowfall will happen soon, later this week if not sooner. "It's just weird. You've been a wanderer for so long. A girl in every port—" she teases, inclining her head towards his.

He can see their breath fade out with every spoken word, every exhale. He gives a strained sigh to play along. But says the next words with the utmost seriousness. "I never had a girl in every port," he replies soberly, watching her.

"Living out of a suit case," she continues, unhearing. He watches as she stares out into the distance, across the water. The orange ornate street lamps warmly emanate against the dark skies, and Arthur watches their feet and their small shadows as they pass under. He thinks of that meeting, when they argued over the city of love or the city of lights years ago. He wonders what he considers it to be at this moment, and he looks at the woman walking right net to him, knowing the answer.

"That I won't miss," he scoffs, though he has packing down to a science.

"Sleeping on the job," she concludes with a playful shove with her elbow. He shoves her right back, lightly.

"I'm thinking about settling down for a while," he says soberly, "gaining moss."

He adds those words purposefully, and that grabs her attention. She is fully invested on him now, though she pulls down on the back of her gray cap as he speaks. "I want to try to get to know a city past its black market, longer than a lunar cycle or two."

"But aren't you going to miss dreaming?"

There's the rub, the debate he's had with himself when he decided it in the first place. Would he though? The perpetual action, the intrigue, the variety of work in days. How many people can say that they had that experience? How many can say that they chose to walk away from it?

"No," he tells her truthfully. "I won't. It's time I do this." And in saying it, he feels her support, sees it in her expression, feels it in her smile that goes straight to his gut.

"Well, my friend," she announces with a flourish of her mittened hands. She gestures out toward the end of the street. They are almost at the end of the bridge, ready for proper streets and other pedestrians. A few shops still have their fluorescent lights on. He spots a few workers locking up and leaving in pairs or solo in different directions. They wave farewell to one another. Some even scream French obscenities to one another in what he hopes is good-natured joking. "You've chosen the right place," Ariadne finishes, "though I am quite biased myself."

She's smiling. It's full and genuine, and Arthur cannot help but open his elbow for her, allowing her to grab hold. He tucks her firmly to his side, hugging her close as she lets out another shiver. Clearly her coat and knits weren't enough for today.

"Good," he says as they walk into the darkening sidewalk and towards her apartment. In the morning, he'll tell her that he already found a place.

* * *

With Arthur's contacts and knowledge, they're able to get him the proper papers bringing him back into legitimate society. He carries a normal ID in his wallet and billets for the Métro on him at all times.

He contacts Saito for some private work. He buys a couch. Ariadne approves of his choice of apartment in the Second Arrondissement with the exposed wood beams and brick walls, high ceiling, and magnanimous views of the zinc rooftops and terracotta chimneys around.

Ariadne starts with helping him purchase the necessities for his kitchen from Nutella to baguettes from the boulangerie around the corner.

Even with her temp job sometimes not taking up the full weekday, she helps him furnish his new abode, scouring the city for proper furnishing and spending endless amount of time on the Métro, their arms laden with bags. Arthur takes satisfaction in purchasing items that don't necessarily have to be ephemeral or mobile. He takes pride in filling up the place with things he enjoys.

He likes having a space of his own, a small apartment in a sixth floor walk up with two bedrooms, one he uses as a study, a living room and kitchen. He decorates sparsely, modern with clean lines in the cut of the wood and the matte metal furniture.

Ariadne pronounces the apartment entirely his after two days of arranging furniture once everything's purchased. Hands on hips and studying the leather couch, she plops onto it.

* * *

"It doesn't change anything Tom," she says, trudging up the wooden and iron stairs to his floor, her hands loaded with netted turtle bags of groceries.

"Really? Because the last time we talked about it was before you helped him move in," he replies marching up behind her, similarly weighted down by bags.

"I was busy working too," Ariadne point out, curving the banister and watching him make his way up. "I still have my temp job."

He looks up at her. "At an architecture firm who can't hire you right now." He curves the banister and faces her. "You're basically a minion."

She scowls at that. "It may be small, but I'm still working. I'm still doing something."

"Yes but _essentially_?"

She shakes her head at his gall and turns away. "I'm not sure if I can talk to you right now."

There's a laughing note to his voice as he calls out to her. "Ariadne."

"Shut up Tom," she says as she trudges up the next round of stairs.

* * *

The light's fading fast outside her window by her desk, and she refuses to look out and sigh. There's a pencil under her nose and she presses her fingers to her lips thoughtfully as she reads through her e-mails. There are at least four of them signed regretfully with hopes to her success. One of her last temp positions gives her the go-ahead to use them as a reference, but there's nothing more.

She chooses to remain optimistic. She chooses to close her computer and look out the window, thinking about how horrible days don't belong in somewhere like Paris. She chooses to leave her apartment. She knows that she needs a drink.

* * *

Through some sort of reconnoitering on his part, she found Arthur next to her on the plane to Sydney. Cobb sat a little ahead in a window seat, Yusuf was further up, and Eames in the back. Saito lounged somewhere in first class, ignoring them all.

Of course, that was the plan. They weren't meant to be this close to one another—they agreed to act like strangers—and yet, here she was, directly next to the point man, her only flight companion in the two-seat row. Of course he called aisle, despite her ticket saying otherwise. But one got the impression that Arthur always got his way. Ariadne looked down at her book, unable to read another word. Instead, she placed her hand over her mouth, her fingers right under her nose, as she looked towards the shaded window.

She felt the tap on her shoulder and looked over to see Arthur ignoring her. Subtly, he looked down at her lap where her book lay then away as if nothing had happened. His small black Moleskin notebook sat on her open page. She picked it up, her index finger flipping to the ribbon book-marked page, where on a crisp sheet, Arthur's handwriting met her with one small question.

_Change your mind?_

She looked at him through the corner of her eyes. He noticed immediately and only held up a pen without even shuffling around. She wasn't past such subtlety. She grabbed it and propped up her knees to dash a quick reply. She held the notebook on the armrest, angled it for him to read clearly.

_Never._

She was surprised to feel the notebook plop onto her lap a second later. Only this time, it was a game of hang man.

* * *

He picks up his mobile in a daze. "Arthur?" A small voice asks.

Four months in Paris already, and he learned the value of a normal bed. Granted, much of his work consisted of sleeping in odd places, and the hotels he always stayed in were researched and chosen given the circumstances. Yet, there wasn't anything quite like choosing out a bed and coming home to it every night. The small dependability and comfort in it makes him forget everything of the day. "Arthur?" The small voice asks again, and Arthur has to truly force his brain to alert. He feels rusty at being ready on the fly. Four months in Paris can do that to a person.

"Yes?" He asks. His voice is stern and bright against this hazy feeling of the awake world. He rolls over and picks up his die sitting on his nightstand.

"I can't sleep," his phone says.

"So you decided to inflict your suffering on those of us who don't have the same problem?" He drags his hand across his eyes. "How nice."

"Come walk with me," Ariadne demands through his mobile.

He looks at the bright phone, the light stinging his eyes. "It's midnight Ariadne. There's plenty of time for you to fall asleep." And not go walking, he mentally adds.

"I'm also standing right outside your apartment door."

He lies back in the center of his bed, head directly on the pillow as he opens his eyes to the ceiling. He purposefully does not focus his eyes to the dark, not wanting to adjust to being awake. "That has got to be the creepiest thing you've ever done."

She huffs. "Well if you don't go out to walk with me, then I'm going out myself."

"No," he says, the gentleman in him pushing himself up. "I'll walk you back." He rolls over but no more. His face is in the pillow, but he's closer to the edge.

"No. We're equal now. I don't need a man to walk me back," she replies matter-of-factly.

"So you're actually admitting that I am manly now? What happened to Arthur Wimpy Arms?" He asks as one of his wimpy arms falls off the side of the bed. He groans as he feels the cold air hit him.

The nickname came about when they brought in the rather large brown leather couch into his apartment, where Ariadne felt that she was much better at heavy lifting than Tom or Arthur was. In her phone, under her contacts, Arthur will be found under the name "Arthur Wimpy Arms."

"Attackers don't know you like I know you," she responds teasingly. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"No," he sits up and immediately shivers. He needs to rethink sleeping without a shirt. "I'm up. I'm coming."

"Really?"

"Yes, Rude One. I'm awake," he groans, touching his bare feet to the cold wooden floor. "Just let me grab a shirt, and shoes, and a frying pan to pummel you with," he adds for good measure.

"I don't think we bought one for you," she replies almost sadly over the forgotten item. "But could you hurry? We're going out."

"Why are we going out?" He asks, struggling for the light near his bedroom door.

* * *

"People are allowed to have a horrible day in Paris," Ariadne smacks out, a glass of wine in her hand as she sits up on his bed two hours later. She gives a slight hiccup and covers her mouth with her fingers. Despite this, she holds out the cup for more, and Arthur dutifully fills it up.

It could be the wine or Arthur's new lived-in apartment or the general companionship that comes with drinking with a good friend, but the atmosphere is casually cozy, helped by the warm simmer of light from his bedside table. The room's cast in shadow and a warm golden glow as they lounge on his comfortable mattress with regular kitchen glasses of wine in their hands. At the foot of the bed, Ariadne shucked her shoes and her scarf before sitting down.

"Remind me to actually invest in proper wineglasses," Arthur says easily, replacing the now empty bottle next to the other two empty ones on his nightstand. The warm yellow glow of his lamps envelope them, though it's helped much by the wine consumed, and Arthur's smirk seems permanent as he looks at her sitting next to him, resting on his pillows.

Her eyes droop in comfort as she takes another long drag of her wine served in a common kitchen glass. "Don't," she advises. "It gives it a—a more _bohemian_ quality to it."

Arthur feels himself laugh at that, and he tumbles back onto his pillows before reaching for his own glass on his nightstand.

Ariadne huffs loudly, rudely, and repeats her sentiments. "People are allowed to have a horrible day in Paris," she repeats thoughtfully, holding her glass at chin-level as she thinks it over. She turns to Arthur.

"Yeah, I'd have to agree with you there," he replies, stretching his legs out to the foot of his bed. "Life's not all montages and red balloons, especially if you're being woken up at a God-forsaken hour."

When he first came to his apartment door, she didn't wait for him to greet her before she walked in rather determinedly. "You're wearing that if we go out?" She asked, eyeing his t-shirt and blue striped pajama pants. She herself wore cigarette jeans and a flouncy silk top along with a scarf. She made her way towards his kitchen and made a beeline towards the cabinet where she stored a few celebratory wine bottles during the move.

"—by a drunk," he jokes, and she glares in return, gulping the rest of her wine down.

"I wasn't drunk until—" she looks over his shoulder—"Did we really just drink that many?"

He follows her gaze and looks at them too. "Oh." He tries to retrace after opening that first bottle in the kitchen, but his mind remains heavy. Childishly, he reasons that nothing bad could have happened anyway, if he is in bed and since the feet from the kitchen to his bedroom is not very far.

She hands him her glass, and he holds it in his left hand with the other in his right. "I'm not drunk, by the way," she adds for good measure, lounging back, and Arthur laughs, gulping one then the other smoothly.

He nods sagely before placing the empty glasses onto his nightstand. "You're just having a terrible—"

"Horrible," she adds between gulps.

"No-good, very bad day," he finishes off, knowing this mantra as she spoke it often tonight. "I got it. You're allowed to have some even if you live in Paris." Out of reflex, Arthur slick backs his own hair, a habit he formed out of self-consciousness. Ariadne laughs and reaches over to muffle his good work.

After a beat of silence, Arthur clears his throat subtly. "Do you—you still don't want to talk about it do you?" He asks, unsure of his slip on his wording and deciding that the wine and lack of sleep might be affecting him.

She looks up at him, doe-eyed yet tired. She shakes her head with an exaggerated pout, her hands coming together in her lap. "Paris," she grumbles and Arthur almost smiles at her lack of coherency. "It's just Paris."

"She's your city," he points out. "She's yours," he adds for good measure, reigning in his own meaning but misunderstanding his general point.

She groans and pushes her head into his shoulder. "She's done with me." And Arthur can't help the chuckle at the ridiculousness of this conversation. How fragmented, how modern, how French. They might as well wear berets and have a mime in the corner.

"What are you talking about?" He demands good-naturedly, easily, comfortably, his head swimming with wine. "Are we done watching _A Christmas Story_?" He asks without waiting for an answer, gesturing to the foot of the bed where his laptop sits.

Ariadne regards it dramatically. "It's not cheering me up like I thought it would," she admits to the paused Ralphie on screen, reaching over to pop the lid down. Suddenly, over her shoulder, she looks at Arthur, eye wide as realization dawns on her. "You tricked me!" She accuses.

Arthur half-shrugs, eyes slitting sleepily. "I didn't want to go out."

She gapes. "But you said—"

"I was sleeping before you called, Ariadne. I didn't feel like leaving the apartment."

She shoves him, hard. "Some gentleman. That's the last time someone tells me to watch a movie while he gets ready." She shoots him a disgusted look. "What male needs an entire movie to get ready?"

Arthur slicks back his own hair for dramatics and laughs when she shoves his shoulder again.

"I should've known when you poured me wine," she grumbles, settling into the pillows with her arms across her chest, ever petulant.

"Oh get off your high-horse," he replies, scooting to sit right next to her. "Anyone else should feel so lucky to be in my bed." His laughter is stopped prematurely when he feels one of his pillows smack him right in his face, winding him momentarily. She laughs as his expression changes, and he shoves the pillow away. "You're evil," he grumbles back, the pillow in his lap.

She stretches over and kisses him lightly on the cheek. "Sucks to be you," she says with a laugh, sitting back into the pillows and holding her stomach as the joke grows immensely humorous before her.

He looms over her, steely. "Ariadne?" He asks soberly Arthur-like.

She looks up then, her tremors stopped, though a small one escapes at his serious expression. "Yes?" She asks, attempting to match his inscrutability.

He doesn't break when he says his next words. He shakes his head to emphasize it as well, sending Ariadne over the edge. "You're not funny."

She bites her lip and shoots him a doubtful look. "I'd hate to break it to you Arthur, but I am _hilarious_," she informs him, dragging out the last bit of the word with relish.

He falls back onto the mattress next to her, face first. "Yeah, well, you're also drunk."

She gasps out of shock. "Says you!"

"Of course says me," he retorts, turning over to face her. "Who else in this bed can say it?"

"Me," she points out with undeserved satisfaction. "And as of right now, fifty-percent of this bed votes against you."

"What are you talking about?" He asks, lifting his head from the pillow. This bed is my bed from the redwood forests to the—"

"Shut up," she advises, flicking her wrist in a forget-you gesture. "You're drunk."

"You are!" He chuckles, lifting his head up more.

"Are we seriously going to go through this again?"

"No," he cuts in. He sits up. "You know how I know you're drunk?" He asks reasonably.

She rolls her eyes but placates him in the most condescending tone she musters, "Fine Arthur. How do you know?" And he smiles in a meaningful manner, happy to be right.

"Because your hand is on my knee," he reveals and he shoves the pillow off his lap. They both look down at her hand resting on her knee, and she seems surprised at seeing it there. He laughs, watching her just stare at it, almost as if it isn't a part of her.

She doesn't move, probably to prove a point. "And?" She asks, her hand still there.

"You touch me a lot when you drink," he says casually. "If we weren't in this bed, you'd probably hug me."

"Arthur?" He looks up at her. She gives the same pragmatic demeanor. "You know how I know that you're drunk?" She asks as if she's talking to a child.

Despite himself, he feels tricked. "How?" He asks, suspiciously, his face grimacing in contemplation, when immediately, excitingly, her face is near his, her hands are on him, and her lips slide against his own. And it doesn't surprise him that his first instinct is to cup her chin and pull her towards him. It's the most naturally thing in the world to him to hold her and drag her body towards his as her lips slide across his own. In fact, he chides himself as he feels her small frame against him that he should've done this long, long ago.

She pulls away, breathing heavily. "That was a better idea in my head than in execution," she admits, her hand steadying her away from him on his chest. He feels each of her fingers press onto his pectorals acutely, and he wonders if she can feel the sear of skin beneath the flimsy t-shirt he's wearing. They both breath heavily, and he feels a little smug at the time it takes for her to open her eyes in front of him.

"Yeah, terrible," he agrees without thinking, quickly pulling her back by the waist, his hands gliding along the rough denim waist band, touching the small exposure of the skin on her back, as he brings her lips to his. He feels her hand rest on his shoulder and slide up to his neck. His hands bring her closer against him until she fits on his lap, and Ariadne makes a small gasp at the sudden movement. He swoops in to kiss her again, opening her mouth with his, but she whimpers, pulling away. With considerable effort, she sits up.

"Wait—wait," she rasps. Ever the gentleman, Arthur pulls back, though with great difficulty and restraint. They're both breathing heavily and his arm is still wound round her waist rather decidedly. Playfully, he flicks the loose bit of silk of her blouse as they sit, waiting. And almost immediately she brings her fingers to her mouth, looking around them worriedly. Her eyes never fall on him, seeing past him rather, a habit he's used to seeing. She looks down and realizes that she's straddling him, and as if she's watching someone else, she carefully studies her legs as she starts to lift one thigh, then the other to get up. Only, Arthur doesn't let go of his hold, making it that more difficult.

"Ariadne." He stops her with the reasonableness in his voice, and for a second she pauses, eyes wide and worried. Her hand still cups her mouth, and Arthur knows that if she held a pencil at that moment, she would probably wedge it on her top lip under her nose in thought.

"Please," she says quietly, dropping her hand. "This is wrong. I'm sorry." She tries to extricate herself, but Arthur keeps her in place, and she does everything she can to force herself to look elsewhere. "I'm pretty sure this just made it worse."

"Because of Tom?" He asks. He can't hide the bitterness from his tone when he says it. The thought sobers him and he loosens his hold around her.

He studies her to gage her reaction to the question. The look on her face breaks his heart as he sees the naked desperation and anxiety swim over her features. Her wide brown eyes almost plea for him to stop. "What is it that you're not saying?" He asks suspiciously. "It's been bothering you since you came here."

There's weary resignation in the slump of her shoulders and in the way she looks from the ceiling to the window to his ear, never at him. "Tom asked me to move with him to London," she admits, quietly, and like he just did, she forces herself to see straight at him to gage a response. Instead, Arthur releases her. His arm drops to his side, and she slides over to the opposite end of the bed. Arthur feels gutted, the breath out of him in a quick swoop.

It's his turn to look down at the mattress. "What did you say?" He asks, controlling his voice, steadying himself.

"I haven't given him an answer yet."

"Because of me?" The faux-roguishness of his face hides the small hopeful tint of his question, and as intended, she gives him a rueful smirk.

"Don't flatter yourself Point Man," she jokes, and whatever moment they just had is almost dissolved. Arthur questions whether it happened at all.

He watches the lingering humor falls quite quickly, and he stops her with that hitch of sobriety in his voice, though his wine addled brain would beg otherwise. "Ariadne…"

"I just wanted to forget about it tonight," she says too quickly, breaking into the speech he thinks he should say. "I wanted to go out and make the decision in the morning," she explains before she looks up. "I'm pretty sure I just made it more complicated."

"But we need to talk about this."

"No," she says, petulant, and Arthur can see how everything hits her from this decision to the night to their kiss. She's adamant and stubborn, and Arthur, if he's honest, lacks the desire to listen about Tom at this moment, to listen or debate the merits of leaving. He doesn't feel much like being the good guy for once. He doesn't feel much like playing reasonable either. He just wants to talk about what just happened, he wants to take advantage of this stark exposure, he's unsure he'll have in the morning. He can't let it pass. "I didn't want to talk about it," she continues. "I wanted to go out and forget that I had a decision to make in the first place." She sits up on her side of the bed, facing him. She scratches the back of her neck out of irritation; a habit Arthur knows well and saw often. Out of irritation of what, he can't really tell. Of the moment? Of the possible move? What? He wants to ask and push for her to say. He knows he can, and he knows that she'll answer, if pushed. But studying her, he feels his resolve waiver. He makes his decision.

"Fine," he relents, reaching over to flick his lamp off, leaving the room in odd darkness, cold and uncomfortable than the golden glow they were reveling in.

"What are you doing?" She asks, still sitting. The white panels of the window covering the glow from the street.

"It's two in the morning," he says, falling face first into his pillow. Mindful, he tosses one at her, and it lands sort of in her lap. "I'm not letting you walk the streets of Paris by yourself, and you're not going to let me walk the streets of Paris by myself when I offer to walk you back."

She remains unmoved at her part of the bed. "Are you asking me to sleep over? After what just—"

He picks up his head. "It's easier this way," he says, tiredness hitting him. "I promise to keep my hands to myself as long as you stop making wanted advances on me." At his obvious wording, she looks almost miserable. "Just do it," he groans, feeling slightly guilty. "Here." He reaches over and grabs his laptop near her feet, dragging it towards them before he pops it open. "We still have the rest of _A Christmas Story_ to watch anyway."

He feels the weight of the mattress shift under him, and the comforter is pulled taught. He smells her close by. As she gets comfortable, he fiddles with the player to start up the film.

"You got yourself a point—" she waits a beat before adding— "man." And the mattress tremors with her slight self-congratulatory giggle.

"That was awful," he replies, turning onto his back to see the screen better, and her shakes fade off as she settles in.

* * *

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but he blinks awake a few times, adjusting his eyes to his dark room while he pulls his arms out and over the comforter, over his chest. There's slight movement to his left, and he feels the comforter tug upwards, hears her shuffle into a more comfortable position. There's the subtle exhale of a sigh, and the steady in and out of her breathing that lets him know she's final asleep. He blinks awake, ever aware and ever conscious of her next to him.

* * *

**A/N:** You guys are so great for reviewing! Your words and curiosity kept me writing and brought me out of many a writer's block for this chapter. I can only hope this lives up to what's built up so far, but essentially, I'm happy with it.

Also, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day is probably one of the best children's books out there.

As always, thanks for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**__ I usually leave my notes at the end, but I wanted to express humongous apologies for the lack of update. Against my best intentions, I did not finish this story before school started and thusly became overwhelmed with school and an internship. Well, I'm getting back on track, so here's an update! Thank you very much for the reviews from Amethyst3232, S, belle-amie57, Enigmatic-Salvation, zara allegra, NewSlove, Clair-de-Lune, Shrilaraune, Beaufale, JossieGirl, sgundy34, PrincessVamp, and RedMapleLeaf and to everyone who followed and favorited!_

* * *

She wakes up to a faded glowing morning. She lifts her head from the pillow and looks over her shoulder towards the white paneled curtains, out of curiosity she supposes because the radiance from the windows burns her eyes. She shields her face with her arm and pulls her flat hair from her face with her other hand.

She sits up. She hears noises in the kitchen and looks over to see Arthur's side of the bed empty and semi-made with his pillow fluffed and the comforter pulled tight and straight.

She winces when she sees her appearance in his bathroom mirror, and she does her best to flatten her bed head and takes a finger of toothpaste, rinsing out with water by cupping her hands to the tap.

She finds her cardigan folded on the chair against the wall near the door, and she picks it up, pulling her arms thoughtfully through as she makes her way through the shaded hallway, her bare feet cold against the dark hardwood floor.

Her footsteps can't be that light, because Arthur looks up from his paper and his coffee before she comes into the kitchen.

"Good morning," he greets, and Ariadne notes the small smile he uses, as if he's gaging her at the same time. It annoys her for some reason and makes her feel self-conscious.

Ariadne goes with honesty, groaning as she plops into the wooden seat next to him. "Is there anymore?" she asks, gesturing towards his cup. He nods, sipping his own, pointing in the direction of the counter, and Ariadne is up, finding the cups in the cabinet she picked, the spoons to stir in her cream and sugar in the drawer organized as she made it. She leans her hip against the counter edge, blowing lightly over the top of her mug as she brandishes the spoon. The steam curls over and the smell settles her stomach and makes her feel at ease.

Arthur turns in his seat, watching her carefully. Before she even sips her brew, he says it. "Are we going to talk about this?"

She feels as if her coffee's ruined. "What's there to talk about?"

Arthur turns into the distance and nods. His fingers tap the top of the wooden chair in thought. "So…good talk," he says lamely.

Ariadne sips her coffee. "Yep."

His eyes focus back on her, face business serious and reasonable. "We should probably talk about this Ariadne."

Ariadne slumps back at the table, placing the spoon onto the wood top. "What's there to talk about Arthur? We don't talk about things like this. Like that time we kissed in that dream?" She holds her mug between two hands, pattering her fingers like wings on the side. "We never talked about that," she points out, stretching out her arms.

"Is this about that?"

She looks down and feels her face turn red. "No."

"Because I always thought it was a little odd that you never brought it up," he muses, and she imagines the look of evil delight on his face.

"And it never occurred to you to bring up yourself?" she calmly counters back, braving a look.

Arthur doesn't say anything but lounges in his seat.

"That's exactly why I didn't bring it up myself," she says, pulling her cup back to drink.

Arthur studies his hands. His finger taps and curls around the handle of his mug, and she watches him as she gulps everything down.

"Look," he begins, and feeling the importance of whatever he's about to say, she places her mug back down with a distinct thud. "We had a little too much to drink last night. I was tired. You were upset. And we've known each other for years, so a culmination of our mutual respect for each other can resort in—"

"Kissing one another?" She completes doubtfully.

Arthur sighs. His eyebrows lift, clearing his face of emotion. "Inevitably, yes."

Ariadne chews on this explanation, feeble as it is. At the same time, she can see past Arthur's casual façade as he drinks from his mug. The steely assessment in his eyes as he looks at his fridge shows how determined he is to give her this easy out, because of Tom, she knows. She appreciates the sentiment, the genuine gentleman coming out despite this baffling predicament.

Yet it seems almost too easy to allow this route. Haven't they proved to one another that they're more than capable to air out laundry and to one another?

No, she knows. This is different. This rocks their relationship to its core, and threatens their future in each other's lives, risks what they really mean to one another. Arthur gives her an easy out, which is nice of him. He's nice, always has been that nice, dependable Arthur.

But why does it bother her that he's so willing to give it to her?

She needs to say something, to tell him that this isn't talking about it at all. Her hand sits flat on the table, and she picks up her index finger to tap a few times. Arthur's eyes are on her, and she peeks at him, her chin still pointed downward. She forces a smile on her face in preparation. She licks her lips.

"Yes." The false words fall easily onto the tight smile on her lips. "Yes, of course."

* * *

Dom avoided her. She noticed in the wary way she caught him staring at her when they deplaned for the layover in Dubai. He looked weary and ambivalent and almost frightened of her. The plane needed refueling before reaching Sydney, and the team marched off, headed in separate directions to wait the thirty minutes needed.

Ariadne sat by the window at the gate, her feet pulled up, Indian style, as she attempted to read her book again. Her white jacket sat behind her shoulders. She yawned, her book positioned between her hands.

"Hasn't your mother ever told you to cover your mouth?"

She held a fist up, blocking her lips as she yawned again.

"You know if you didn't come, you could be in Paris, sleeping."

She turned to Arthur who sat right next to her and gave him a saccharine smile. Her eyes slightly glazed with much needed sleep. "It's really too late to keep trying to convince me not to come," she said through a yawn, "don't you think?"

He shrugged and lounged further back, extending his feet in front of him with a groan. "We could always leave you here in Dubai."

"Because being abandoned in another country is just what I wanted."

"Sydney?" He offered. "You could enjoy the sights and study some amazing architecture."

Ariadne closed her book with a thud, one hand kept it in her lap as the other fell to rest on the chair between them. She gave him a pointed superior look as a response.

After a moment of silence, Arthur broke it with a slight stoop of his shoulders, the action, though small, called attention to himself. He cleared his throat like he was about to do a presentation. Ariadne understood this to mean he was about to be frankly honest with her.

"Once we're in Australia, we can't know each other, even when we land in Los Angeles," Arthur advised, dropping his head and fiddling with the chair rail between them. She watched his fingers tap irritatingly at the hard, pocked plastic.

He didn't look up, and Ariadne watched him keep himself busy, his words settling into her hazy mind. "So this is good-bye for you and me?" She asked, baffling to the small sense of dred she felt at her own words. Sleep deprivation and surprise were never two chemicals mixed well.

His hand slid down, as if he just noticed the habit. "In reality, yes."

That seemed…unaccountable. Ariadne shook her head, a feeling of righteous anger simmering in her. Annoyed, she was about to repeat her question when she felt it. A subtle brush of contact on her pinky finger as his hand rested shyly on top of her own. She didn't move. The pressure grew purposeful, and she felt almost surprised to see his eyes staring right back at her, almost as if he was trying to communicate something to her that she didn't understand. Her anger ebbed away, this time into anticipation, in excitement, in demand but of what, she didn't have time to consider.

He had that tight, sweet smile she grew used to over the past few months as he said it. "Good-bye Ariadne." And she felt that warm feeling spread through her gut filling her up and sending buzzers to her brain. The sentimental side of her, that deep artistic side, thought about the pure distillation of this small act, sort of like bittersweet syrup.

She couldn't help the breathless lilt in her tone as she replied back, repeating the sentiment with his name in place.

He looked as if he wanted to say something further, so she stayed quiet, willing him and hoping that he would speak. Instead, that calculated cover came back on his face. The smile looked more forced and his eyes were back to blank. He pulled his hand back, and Ariadne was hyper aware of each digit lifted off of her own hand as he got up from his seat and made his way towards the ebb and flow of the walkway between the gates. People rushed past with rolling luggage and families. Security roamed through. Families chatted. People shouted. Sneakers and dress shoes squeaked as plastic wheels tapped the floor. And Arthur walked into it, welcomed by the mob.

* * *

They stand in line at the boulangerie, waiting as a rather large woman, three customers ahead of them, points and discusses the boule au levain to great detail with the baker behind the counter. It seems to be a heated discussion as the baker points down the metal racks behind him and the woman nods along, happily. No one in the queue gives an angry second thought to the exchange, almost happy to wait under the warm overhead lights amongst the drifting aroma of the bread nesting in metal baskets around them.

"You can't even admit to yourself that you like him. You _like_ him Ariadne," Rebecca stresses, reading the chalkboard menu above the counter. She turns to face her head on. "I can't believe you kissed and nothing! As if—"

Ariadne lowers her voice as a hint to her friend. "Are you forgetting that I'm in a relationship right now?"

"A relationship that might take you away from me," her friend points out. They look up briefly, realizing the queue moves ahead a person as the large woman smilingly leaves the shop with a large brown paper bag. "That's points against Tom."

Ariadne takes another step as the people in front of them get attention. "And Arthur?" She asks, almost timidly, though she has an evil hankering to hear Rebecca's opinion. She has a feeling that she will not like the answer.

"You need to ask him," is all she gets from her before she steps up to the counter and requests a baguette. At a split second, Ariadne adds another to the order. Rebecca shrugs at that, and Ariadne looks at her with pleading eyes.

"I've had so much to drink last night," she explains.

And Rebecca mockingly rude looks her up and down. "Apparently," she says with a smile.

The worker on the other side of the counter waves their attention, attempting to push more carbs onto them, but Rebecca declines politely and pulls out her wallet from her bag.

"You'll remember your dress fitting tomorrow right?"

Ariadne sags. "The prospect of tomorrow is pretty draining."

Her friend rolled her eyes.

Their bread wrapped in paper, and the goods paid for, they leave the shop, stepping out onto the sidewalk to face one another. "Look," Rebecca sighs, holding the two loaves in her arms like someone would a bouquet of flowers or a baby. "Kiss him, be with him, be friends with him. Just do what makes you happiest."

"And if that's London?" Ariadne poses. "With Tom?"

Rebecca curls her lip in thought, watching Ariadne, who stares back on pins and needles. Finally, Rebecca dips her chin, pulling out one of the long loaves from her hold. She hands it to her. "Then do it," she advises. "Tout de suite," she completes with a smile. "It's never a good idea to leave things like these out."

Ariadne curls her fingers around the entire loaf, and there's a subtle crunch of the freshly baked outer crust beneath the brown packaging paper. She can already taste it, and her empty stomach and weary, dehydrated, confused mind drink in the scent like an answer to her problems. Greedily, she pinches the top end off, the crust giving way to flaky, steamy deliciousness, and despite Parisian taboo, she chomps on it in the street. Crumbs settle onto her chin and she does her best to swipe them away but they land in her scarf.

Rebecca laughs, pointing at her face to indicate trouble areas. "Um. That's the spirit?" She cheers with reservation, reaching over to clear out the architect's scarf.

Ariadne out stretches her arms and hugs her friend, kissing one cheek then the other in the usual fashion. "Tout de suite, mademoiselle," Ariadne promises, chewing.

* * *

"You've reached Ariadne. I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but please leave your name and number—"

Arthur walks over to his couch, shutting off his phone before the beep, and tosses his mobile onto his coffee table. It's been two weeks since they kissed, since he first heard of this possible move to another country from her, and since then, nothing. She either tactfully avoids her usual places or he just simply lost his touch at tracking her. A part of him doesn't want to invade her space, and yet, it doesn't stop him from calling her just to see.

Half of him is angry. He can't deny that he's angry with her for being so childish and inconsiderate, and there are times he tells himself that he's done with her and everything about Paris. But then he'd end up calling her within the same hour.

This time, instead of dwelling on the ignored call, he picks up the manila folder sitting open next to it, and he heads into the spare room he uses for his office. For five months, he's been working as Saito's private investigator. Saito, at first seemed taken aback at the request of a more legal fitting for the point man, but Arthur stands resolute.

"A waste of his talents and experience," is what the job is, according to Saito, and Arthur happily falls into the work, taking up due diligence for Saito's investments. He looks up what licensing he'll need to continue in the work. He's busy by the workload and meetings he needs to complete for Saito, hoping to prove that he can solve these puzzles as well as the dream ones.

He doesn't need to focus on a small architect and her petty behavior.

* * *

It's funny how heartache can still sting despite the very assured notion that one's perfectly fine. Riding the Mètro, Ariadne leans on the window, despite the germs, her face resting on her hand as she looks out. The old line built around the 1900's was rickety as ever, darting through the darkened tunnel until surfacing at lit stops for new passengers before dunking into darkness again.

Ariadne sits curled in her seat, one leg propped up under her, her bag in her lap. She eyes the new passengers quickly without turning her head, ensuring that the empty space next to her remains that way. As if the Parisians understand her feelings, they leave her alone, choosing to stand and hold onto the rails rather than share a seat with a heartbroken American toting a pastel box of macaroons and truffles. She secures the white buds in her ears, feigning music, and looks out the window for her stop.

Tom left today, she knows. He left on the six o'clock train out of La Gare du Nord headed for a two-hour ride to London, where he will serve as an editor to a sister newspaper. It didn't take him long to move all of his stuff—while she helped Arthur, Tom and friends from the paper busied themselves with Tom's apartment—and it certainly didn't take him long to get over the heartache, posting pictures in a pub in London already. Or so it was when she was last online anyway. They're not friends anymore.

It happened last week, when she met him for dinner at the bistro near his apartment where they, coincidentally, had their first date. They were hardly into their food, when he gave her the ultimatum. He needed to know right then if she was going with him, because he was leaving in two weeks with or without her.

"So it's like this? You give me a strenuous term and I'm just supposed to reach it or be found wanting?" She asked, incredulous.

"No, you were supposed to make a decision months ago," Tom pointed out. "We talked and talked about this Ariadne. It shouldn't be this way in the first place. It's not like you have anything here."

"Because my life should surround yours," she bit off with a roll of her eyes. "Because I'm the one without any strings in Paris. Ariadne doesn't have a job. She should be only happy to leave with her talented boyfriend," she said with a much deeper, mocking voice that would have been funny, had not the circumstance been this one.

Tom looked bitter. "I didn't mean it that way."

"You implied that at every turn," she cuts back. "Every time you brought it up, you would tell me how it was an opportunity since I'm struggling here. You would say that I'd have time to start afresh with you and that I had nothing going on here. You were so quick to tell me that my work here doesn't matter."

"Because it's true!"

Her face fell and she sat back, silent.

He attempted to be reasonable. "Ariadne, you've been floating along on these temp jobs, when you can't see that positions aren't readily available for you here. You keep telling me that you want to show people like Denis and Miles that you can do it, but you haven't done anything! And here is a risk at something worthwhile, and you're just too scared to take it."

"How does that mean that my work doesn't matter?" She asked, dangerously calm.

Tom looked at his misstep and started to backtrack in his expression and his features and his words. "Ariadne—I didn't mean that—you're the one who said—"

"What did you mean then, Tom? That because I'm not doing something stable yet, what I'm doing isn't as important as your career?" She couldn't help the look of disdain on her face as she faced him.

"You haven't been working for months," he explained. "I'm just saying that—"

Ariadne looked off in the distance, a hollow laugh escaping her. "Are you seriously—" She looked right at him. "First, I might not have the job I want now, but I haven't given up on it entirely. Second, you keep fighting for London even when it's riskier for me than for you."

"All I'm saying is that you're in a rut right now—" He attempted.

"And I know that. I know, but I'm not going to assume that a move to a new city will change everything for me. There's no guarantee, can't you see that? It's scary making such a blind step."

"Because you don't want to go with me." She felt herself rein her anger in at his sudden stalk truth. She sat back against her seat, her previous passion pulling her forward. Tom looked as if he'd rather not say anything else. He looked, weary and bitter. He looked like he gave up on pushing a boulder up a hill. "You know that that's the reason," he said much more calmly. "We can't keep pretending that your work is really why you haven't said yes."

"Who's pretending?" She asked, her voice just as calm. "Clearly, you never gave what I wanted any consideration."

His face turned ugly, annoyed. "Come off it Ariadne. Just admit that you just want out already."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you seriously Jedi-mind tricking me into breaking up with you?"

He shook his head. "Fine. If you want to stay in denial, then, I'll do it. I think we should break up."

Her smile was saccharine. "This is when I should ask you to reconsider because you put it so nicely."

Tom scratched his ear. "And here I thought we could be two adults about it."

"I'm not going to pretend that this is amicable Tom." She sat back. "Who are you to make demands of me when this is my life? It's my decision to make and here you are forcing my hand. I'm not going to London with you, and yes, I realized that I never wanted to."

"Excellent." He looked off past her. "I'm pretty much gone anyway." He got up, shaking a few Euros out of his wallet and onto the table. "Good luck with the architecture here." He said in a tone that implied otherwise.

"Yeah, well good luck with the next great American novel," she shot back carelessly as he walked off, leaving her sitting, fuming as Paris lit up around her.

She's fine, she knows. Her heart isn't hurt as much as she thinks it should be, despite her melancholy, and she knows that her pride stings most if anything. It just doesn't help that he was right.

"I think we're headed for the same destination," a voice says next to her, and she ignores it.

"We both know that you're not listening to anything, the voice says.

Begrudgingly, she pulls out the earbuds to turn to it.

Arthur's right next to her, dressed in his version of casual, an ironed button-up and jacket. She feels dumb next to him, wearing her two-day old baggy t-shirt and hoodie. Her scarf looks wilted and has a few crumbs from the patisserie she just came from.

"I see you got sustenance at least," he says good-naturedly, eyeing the box in her lap. She can't stop looking at his effervescent expression, the general ease with which he sits there, enjoying the swaying of the cars as if he didn't just appear to her like magic. She realizes then, looking up, that she's at the stop near his apartment, and his words register on her.

"You're coming to see me."

"Yes."

"Even though I've been ignoring your phone calls?"

Arthur shrugs and stretches his legs out before him as the train takes off. "At least you cut right to the point. But I'd say that I'm seeing you _because_ you've been ignoring my phone calls. What would you have done when I showed up?"

"Probably fed you and deflected emotionally," Ariadne answers quickly. She pretends that she's fine and ignores the small flits of concern Arthur sends her, reading signs from her worst-for-wear atmosphere. She can't hide the slight puffy circles under her eyes or the unglamorous paleness of her skin. She definitely can't play off the extraordinary amount she paid for the box of sweets in her lap, but Arthur's too much of a gentleman to say so. Instead, he walks along with her, up the stairs from the subway, to the four blocks to her apartment, not saying anything. He stands by as she fumbles through her purse for her keys, holding the pastry box with one hand politely. They both know that it would take him two seconds to whip out his own copy, and maybe, if things were different, she'd let him. But right now, embarrassed, frazzled, and flailing, she shoves crumpled receipts, rogue pencils, and her wallet from one side to the next, digging through until her middle finger finds the familiar key ring.

She doesn't make a joke to ease the tension but simply opens the door to her dark apartment.

* * *

The brush of contact was nothing, she assured herself, pulling out her large headphones from her bag. She looked at her hand, reaching into the depths of her leather messenger. Each small nail, each small digit. Her skin unmarked and unblemished. Normal. Completely normal.

The team sat scattered behind her, much to her ever-growing chagrin. She hated not being able to see them, to note what they were doing, even though the logical side of her brain told her that it didn't matter, that nothing could possibly be happening seeing as they were on a plane. She just felt on show.

Seating, after first class, meant that she got to go in first, and nonchalantly, she stared outside the window at the air traffic control and the baggage handlers. She concentrated on a plane curving around a small bend of runway, easing its way onto the straight path for take off. Acutely, she noted Eames, Yusuf, and Dom make their way to their seats, none the wiser that they knew one another. Even when Arthur made his way past, she didn't bat an eyelash but stared determinedly outside as if that slow-moving plane was the most interesting thing in the world.

Again, his good-bye, simple and straightforward as it was, sparked through her memory again, and she sat at the gate, watching Arthur walk away from her. Months of recon and training together, and who would've thought that that man would be one of her closest friends? Then again, who would've thought that she'd be on an illegal job to dream-con a businessman out of his empire? Out of the two, it seemed that neither was on a separate scale of awe.

Strict and pragmatic Arthur, who always insisted that they keep their lives professional, fought their friendship. She realized how close they were growing even before he started to back away. She noticed how much she relied on his presence and his calming influence since the first suggestion of a walk. She didn't mean to push him towards it. Hell knew that out of every member of the team, Arthur was probably the only one who would fight friendship, but there was a levity about him, a purposeful lonesome quality that plain made her want to impress him if only to break some sort of reaction from him.

He knew what he was doing, she could tell. He patiently explained dream tactics and taught lessons with the seasoned professionalism he naturally exuded. From the structure of how the lessons were delivered, she saw how well-thought out each building block eased into another, a result of how often Arthur had to do this probably. But it wasn't just that, she thought. She didn't want to win him over because he was so aloof or because he impressed her so much. The odd thing was, she didn't set out to at all. In retrospect, she talked to him because he naturally was a great listener. She asked to walk with him because he was the person on the team she felt she could ask and pester. Eames was too jocular at times, hardened by years of experience. Yusuf was nervous around her, professional, but almost suspicious of her own motives once he began to note how often she'd linger to catch his sessions with Dom. Dom was secretive…

She didn't understand fully what she undertook upon herself. In signing up for this, Arthur told her upfront and the team acted as if she would never really enter the field, and being a job of such magnitudes as to make Arthur on edge and put Eames at giddy ease, she felt the pressure and anxiety begin to roll in her gut.

"Nervous?" Eames had asked her quietly, taking the seat Arthur had just vacated at the gate. He cheerfully munched on a bag of peanuts, offering it to her when her eye fell on them. She shook her head, no. He lounged back, stretching out his legs in a more comfortable position as he continued to chew, open-mouthed. The air was beginning to smell like peanuts, but Ariadne politely didn't say anything. "Cobb's a git for even suggesting to bring you on," he went on, chewing rather loudly. "You haven't even gone through a proper extraction," he laughed, tossing a few more nuts back. He shook his head.

She sighed. "I'll be fine."

Eames leveled a look at her. "Will you?" He asked the question with such solemnity that the nervous pit in her stomach grew three sizes. "I know you have it in you to be amazing," he was saying earnestly, peanut pack tightly gripped in his hand. "I'm not sure what Cobb needs you for, but I sure as hell will kill you first if things start to go wrong."

Ariadne smiled, despite the sound of a threat, she knew that it came from concern. Even if it sounded violence out of context. "Thanks Eames."

"If you'd like," he continued, smacking. "I'll make it a spear."

"That won't be necessary, at all. Simple will be fine, preferred even." Eames laughed at that, crumpling the peanut package in his fist, the rustling plastic hard, ending any seriousness from the Englishman.

"I'll never understand what you and Stick-in-the-Mud have to talk about," Eames said, and Ariadne tilted an eyebrow at him. He shook his head, appearing to recall something. "You're not overtly pragmatic or require such _specificity_ like he does," he offered. "You can also take a joke."

She gave him a tight smile. "Don't be unfair Eames."

"Who's being unfair?" He said with a shrug. "I'm being quite serious, and _that's_ saying something."

Ariadne looked out the window towards the plane now on the straight runway, gearing up. She and Arthur never intended to get that close. It just happened oddly naturally. His prudent inclination to stay away from her and her stubbornness to stand up to him probably had a hand in it, but it also didn't reason why talking to him felt natural, why she could go to him with problems or ideas. It didn't reason why Arthur felt protective of her or why she felt it necessary to keep him cheery. Friendship had a way of worming itself into the extreme situation, helped because of it actually.

And she had to say good-bye to this friend and pretend to not know him as he walked by her row, but she was acutely, extremely, ever aware of his presence, his eyes roving straight through her, years of practice allowing him to. Pointedly, she watched the plane take off from the runway, ascending into the air at an angle and climbing higher, and higher, and higher, safe to turn around once he found his seat.

Her hand still tingled.

* * *

She turns on the lights to purposefully avoid sitting on the couch with him. She puts the kettle on to buy time. He, meanwhile, plops onto her small sofa, pastry box in his lap and sits and waits. He's comfortable in the silence, she knows. He lives in it, stewing out plans, mentally evaluating a situation. She squirms under the pressure, feeling self-conscious over her sweats and lack of food in the place. At least she has the pastry box, she decides, though that in itself is a tell.

She stands by her stovetop, facing out towards the rest of the kitchen, her arms splayed out, gripping the edges of the counter. The pot's small ruckus fills her empty apartment, until she hears his careful foot steps in her kitchen of course. He places the pastry box onto the counter.

She watches it sit there. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

She's surprised that he decides to stay standing. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," she lets out in one breath, and she watches him carefully as he stands there. She watches the careful arch of his eyebrow and the small tightening at the corner of his lip, almost a smile on his face before he speaks.

"Is there a specific reason why or should I just assume it's because of what happened when we were together last time?" He asks finally.

She faces him head on. "Would you believe it's a combination of both?" She asks, and at that, his eyebrows shoot up. A pitiful lurch in her stomach reacts to his expression, and she stifles any thoughts with a shake of her head. "Tom and I broke it off before he left." She looks at him to gage his reaction, and as expected, Arthur's face is studiously blank.

"So—" And Arthur takes the few careful steps towards her. "You decided not to go with him?"

She frowns. "That's entirely what stopped me."

"What did stop you then?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it as he walks towards the counter. "You see, it's funny," he says, and she feels his voice hit her because of how close they are. "Because when you don't answer the question, you answer it."

She doesn't stop the smile tugging at her lips as she looks down. "No," she says with a shake of her head, chin pointed downward. "It's funny because, I got a job."

She feels Arthur tense with understanding, though his voice is cheerful as he speaks, "Ah. There's the rub." He says knowingly. She feels the step he takes away from her. "And you just didn't want to go with Tom?"

It's exactly what she struggled with the past few weeks. She didn't want to go with Tom, despite everything lining up so well for them with Tom's job moving and a London firm asking for her. Apparently her position as a temp worked well: her old boss gave her a shining recommendation to a sister London agency a few weeks ago. She never told Tom or anyone about it, a feeling she excused as superstitious, until she realized that it was because she didn't want to hear everything positive. If Chaplan and Mills even decided to have her, it pushed her closer with Tom.

Ariadne didn't believe in signs, but this was a huge one to ignore.

She tried. Following the dissolution of her internship, she used what contacts Denis could offer to try to find a position—any position—to work. But Paris was either uninterested or tired of her, despite her love of the city. And the stagnant months of work nag her. It felt wasteful to simply live life doing nothing, though it is in one of the most magical cities in the world.

When Tom first gave her the news of a possible move, she felt almost upset by the situation, losing a connection. Being with Tom made her life look proactive, happier. She could easily ignore her lack of stability in career if she had this relationship to work on, if she had someone commiserating with her. She couldn't give him an answer, and he accepted it good-naturedly, understanding her desire for time to think things through, understanding her reservations. He didn't push, and he didn't pry, at first.

Then came the slow realization that he was leaving her, and she entertained the idea of leaving with him, of carrying on this charade that she was actually living a life, rather than panicking over her ephemeral positions and lack of creativity. She could convince herself that she was moving forward by actually moving. Out of desperation, she asked about a sister firm from one of her temp gigs. Apparently it was in London, and on a whim, she sent in her resume and asked for referrals. She waited for two weeks to hear anything from them, and slowly, her worry ebbed away into nonchalance then forgetfulness entirely.

Then Arthur moved to Paris, and she fell in love with her city all over again. Granted, Arthur spent as much time in Paris in between jobs, but there was something in showing someone around the city that leant fresh perspective to a place, even if it was just furniture stores and junk shops or where to buy groceries. He never professed an eagerness to be there, he never made a big deal about settling down, but she felt the excitement in this new phase of his life. And she wanted to see him and be with him for it.

But he was in a position away from her. He had a job. He had contacts. He had a life already established, despite his movements, and what did she have to show for it as he made these strides? She was just another jobless friend.

She was overcome with this debilitating fear, like she exhausted all her energy running towards the edge but stopped immediately to look down. Options for her had run stale, and hopefulness was only there a year ago. She didn't like it. She felt alone and not having prospects or creative outlets started to eat at her. Helping Arthur move into his new apartment was a great distraction, but as the pieces fell more securely in place for him, the more she realized that she would have to return to her old routine.

Tom didn't need a response yet, but she felt the subtle hints and pressure from him. It agitated her, and she felt guilty for putting him off. She started to spend less time at his place, started to avoid his calls. He caught on rather quickly, and he responded in the same kind of childish pettiness of avoiding her when she made an effort, dropping hints until she felt too guilty to stay the night. In a fit, she thought about the "yes." Despite this hard feeling that she shouldn't, that she was right where she needed to be, she wanted to tell him "yes," hoping that a new city could birth a new opportunity to her. The plan looked like progress on her timeline. Even if she told Denis that she wasn't making much headway in position, she could impress him with her "I'm moving to London," announcement.

Deep down, she knew she didn't want to go with him, but everything screamed to do it. She wanted to talk it all over with her best friend.

Instead, she kissed him.

"I wasn't sure if I was supposed to or not," she replies with a small shrug. "Going with Tom was an easy-out to make me feel better and actually feel like I was doing something. But I was just lying to myself."

"And now you have a job in his city."

She quirks a brow. "What makes you think that I'm leaving?"

"Is the opportunity still there?"

The sudden hiss of the boiling kettle makes Ariadne start, and Arthur looks over his shoulder at it. Quickly, she shuts off the heat, and Arthur reaches over to the cabinet to get a set of mugs.

"It's a great opportunity Ariadne," he says, as she shuffles around the kitchen, bringing out milk and tea bags back to the counter. Without looking up she dips tealeaves into each mug, pours water, lets them sit.

"It's just another thing Tom screwed me over for," she says with a shake of her head, her hands busy at work. "I wouldn't have applied in the first place had it not been for him."

She feels Arthur lean his elbow on the counter next to her. She feels his smirk despite her head bent over the mugs of tea. She grabs the cups, wedges the milk jug under her arm and heads back to the couch, asking Arthur to follow with the pastel pastry box he just carried over.

She places everything onto the coffee table. The sugar bowl already there from breakfast, along with her breakfast dishes still sticky with syrup and butter. Arthur looks at these and lifts an eyebrow, teasing. "I didn't think I'd have guests when I came home," Ariadne tells him archly.

"Even so Ariadne," Arthur rejoinders as he sits on the couch and takes his prepared mug from her. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness."

Ariadne collapses onto the seat adjacent to the couch. "Yeah, well I don't aim so high."

"London is pretty high up there." He clears his throat. "Northernly speaking that is."

She takes a sip, bending to reach back and grab at the pastry container. Flinging it open she grabs a small green macaroon through the wax paper. "Want?" She asks gesturing towards the container, and Arthur grabs one himself. "Besides," she continues. "London's high society wasn't my aim anyways."

"Yeah, you're much suited for Parisian life," he says, chewing thoughtfully.

"And with Becks' wedding coming up, you having just moved here—" she takes a bite—"it isn't necessarily ideal." She grabs another one from the box, taking a slow, sweet, delectable bite from the small pastry. "Oh God," she says with closed eyes. "London doesn't have this, does it?"

Arthur laughs. "No, it doesn't."

She opens her eyes and sips her tea, curling one leg under her as she props her knee up. She assesses him with a smile. The warmth from the tea, the familiarity of her home, the familiarity of him with her makes her feel at ease. She doesn't pause when she says it, and he matches her direct gaze. She sighs, cupping her hands around the emanating warmth of the ceramic mug. "It doesn't have you either," she admits.

* * *

Arthur sat back on the plane toward Sydney hardly watching her for the long flight. Instead he opened his Moleskin and read the MASH Ariadne completed for him on the ride over, all the while repressing the smile tugging at his lips.

He didn't know why he felt it necessary to say good-bye to her. He'd see her again in Fischer's dream. He'd be with her to make sure she wasn't in any danger for the mission, despite it being just a dream. He just—

Arthur had a nagging feeling about this. The way Dom shifted in his seat, shooting glances at Ariadne's row from time to time, the way he'd look at his watch. The man couldn't sleep, he knew. Hell, Arthur couldn't sleep either.

They were hiding something, Dom and Ariadne. Arthur had an inkling, and he'd be dumb if he overlooked it. It was Mal. It came down to her, didn't it? The last job they were on with Saito, and then when Ariadne was first introduced into dreams…she kept popping up like a mean-spirited Waldo, ruining the memory of one of the loveliest women he knew and respected. He almost hated Dom for creating this version of her, this darkness that never matched his wife in the slightest.

She was a strong factor in this mission, something Arthur had to account for, he knew. But he could only go so far in the dream levels. He could only hope that Mal's disappearance from their training also meant that Dom had it under control like he said. But Ariadne's last minute addition meant something. First, it meant she knew something he didn't, that she was able to worm her way to Dom like she did with him, and that Dom felt like she could help him.

Arthur hated the risk. He felt it unnecessary and selfish, especially with Ariadne being a novice and especially with an entire team behind Dom, but it was Dom. He trusted him beyond anything. He'd follow him anywhere.

He just hoped it would end well.

He said his good-bye to Ariadne—the real Ariadne—because, for that second, he let his fears come to surface. Despite the extensive planning, he felt the tingle of trepidation beneath the plan, more so than any normal nerves before a job. He never felt unease like this, and he flexed his fingers with pent up energy. Maybe it was her inclusion or maybe it was Dom's apparent instability.

Arthur just knew that he had to say good-bye to her real self. He wasn't sure when he'd see her again to tell her that.

* * *

"I hate the idea of calling you my best friend because it sounds so _pedestrian_. Who says that? I mean other than nine-year-old girls and children, who actually calls someone their best friend?" She asks, holding her bright umbrella close over her head.

"Are you seriously telling me that you don't like saying 'best friend' because it's too much of a commitment?" He asks, askance, holding his own at an angle to address her.

She purses her lips in thought before looking at him. "Is that so wrong?"

They stop at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change and avoiding the threatening splatters from passing cars. "You're leaving in a week and you can't even commit to calling me—"

"Arthur if you say it," she steps back as a rather fast vehicle goes by, "I swear—"

"Should we have _the _talk?" he asks, drenching his words in condescension. "I feel like this wouldn't have been an issue if we did this earlier on."

"Can we call it a personal problem? Why can't I just call you my good friend, or my chum? People don't say that enough anymore," she points out as the rain pelts harsher onto their rain covers.

"Because we're not in the 1900's and getting money through recycled cans?"

She pivots away with a flourish, turning her the wooden handle like she's in an MGM musical. "Har-har-har."

It's been two weeks since he convinced her to leave him. Two weeks since he's wondered whether he did the right thing in telling her to go. The night she told him everything, from her break up to the potential move, he knew immediately what he had to do. He knew it when he understood her reservations, and every phone call, every meeting, every meal together, he badgered her to take it. She had some time to get back to Chaplan and Mills with her affirmative. They were patient. She had time to put everything to right and finally get that stability she hankered for.

But she'd stop. She'd change the subject or take a bite off her fork, anything to avoid the question. He's pretty sure she faked a sneeze once, until finally, walking home from one of Rebecca's museum cocktail events, he shanghaied her: "Why can't you go?" He asked, voicing everything bluntly in four words.

There was a beat of time where Ariadne considered that question. Barely a beat of time for her to reply fully and she headed on without a commitment to what she wanted to say. "It's an opportunity Arthur," she admitted, walking into her apartment, gesturing with her clutch. "But Paris is more home than any other now," he heard her admit. "I can't just pick up and leave."

"Then why not give them a no already?" He asked as he shut her door. It was a small, suitable question anyone would ask. "Why consider leaving everything here if it's your home?" Ariadne went to flick on some nearby lamps, and at his question she spun on her heel to face him, the black skirt of her cocktail dress swishing under her trench coat. A few tendrils of hair fell out of her low chignon, whisping around her temples.

She sucked in her lips, biting them out of nervous habit. Wasn't that just the question of the decade? "I think it's time I tried to do that something on my own," she said, developing the idea as she spoke. The realization flittering over her features as she formed the words. "I want to try to make everyone proud and have something of my own, and this is my shot at failure. I'd be crazy not to take it."

She swallowed the slight lump in her throat. "But before I do any of it. I want to make sure it's the right thing for me to do."

His answer was almost immediate as he took a step forward. He moved to grab her elbows. "It sounds like it'll be good for you," he said, but the lingering smile on his face gave him slightly away.

"But?" She prompted, peaking at him, honest and blunt to a fault. But you'll be leaving me, he thought. Though, he wouldn't say anymore, because he's Arthur. Dependable, reliable Arthur, who will think of your own health before implicating himself at all. He hates being that person sometimes.

"How many times do I have to say it? No buts," he replied assuredly, and he saw her shift at his tone. He didn't question it but went on, "You need to do it. You know it, and I know it. Rebecca knows it."

He hated that part of him watching her, rooting her on to be stubborn and stay, that part that loved every time she told him no. That wasn't fair to her. That wasn't giving her the chance she deserved. He watched her carefully. Her smile was reluctant, growing as his persuasion finally hit home. She exhaled, and Arthur felt the slight shift in her, the tension leaving her arms he still held. "Arthur," she said, looking up at him with her large, brown eyes.

"Yes?" He asked.

She sighed. "I'm going to move to London."

"Congrats. Though I hear it's terrible there," he joked, and she laughed airily, looking at her feet. More of her hair fell over her cheeks.

"You can't see how anyone would ever leave here," she guessed, attempting lightness, walking out of his hold. Arthur dropped his hands, and they fell to his sides limply. She can't help that rueful smile on her face as she makes her way to the kitchen, placing her clutch on the counter. "Paris won you over that much?" She asked, unknowing of what she said but playing it off as teasing.

"Something like that," he said, following her, looking at her, considering her. She positioned herself in front of the fridge, talking over her shoulder as she assessed the contents, lamenting about toasts and complaining over her lack of anything festive to celebrate with other than two small bottles of Orangina. She was about to say something, the demanding words were on the tip of her tongue as she turned to face him, when he led himself forward. He outstretched his arms and reached over her shoulders, his hands gripped her and ran across her back until their chests met one another. He squeezed.

"You don't hug," she commented, completely baffled by the action, into his shoulder. The fridge light over her shoulder spot-lighting them perfectly in the dim apartment.

"Yeah," he agreed, holding her tighter, his face in her hair, her shoulder. "But you don't leave me everyday, now do you?"

She rushes through the street, avoiding puddles, and leads the way to the steps of the metro. "So what are we if not best friends?" he asks, following her lead down into the subway.

"I don't mind being each word singularly," she replies, pulling her umbrella closed and searching her pocket for her billet.

"What? Friends?" He asks, handing her an extra one of his.

"Yeah but," she says, going through the turnstile, "we're also the best."

* * *

_**A/N: **__It may seem like I took back all of the progress away from the last chapter, but I have a plan! I'm excited for next chapter. It's basically the reason I wrote this whole story. But thank you guys for bearing with me. Please share your thoughts on this chapter! But as always, thanks for reading._


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: **__Big thanks and virtual hugs to greymidnight, A. Pevensie, PrincessVamp, Ludi, Shrilaraune, Amethyst3232, Enigmatic-Salvation, and sgundy34 for reviewing my last chapter. You guys are really kind and truly amazing for taking the time to write something and show your support. Much love to those who also favorited and followed too!_

_Also, I thought I'd give fair warning that this may be too sweet of a chapter. Seriously, I have them eat a lot of cake in here. Haha, also I was excited by the prospect of this chapter because it takes place in one night, so hopefully the time frames aren't too confusing._

* * *

Ariadne holds her champagne flute aloft and turns towards Rebecca sitting at the front table with a serene smile on her face as she holds Louis' hand. Ariadne shifts in the long, flowing gray bridesmaids dress, and she fights the urge to pull up the strapless bodice. One hand curls around the light fabric flowing near her hip. The cool spring evening the epitome of perfection for this wedding, which Ariadne knows Rebecca and her mother painstakingly worked towards.

"It's my last night in Paris," she goes on, and she hears the dithers of pity from the crowd. "And Louis and Rebecca have been there for my entire tenure here. There are no two people more deserving of love and happiness than these two."

Ariadne smiles at the array of guests sitting in small tables around the dance floor. "To the bride and groom," she announces in English and repeats in French, making sure to address everyone. The candlelit tables of family members mirror her happy expression as they hold their own drinks up and toast with her.

Her job done, Ariadne shoots Rebecca a grateful smile, before making her way out of the center dancing area back to her table, her skirt floating a second behind her. She sends appreciated nods to the few guests who smile at her encouragingly.

"Not bad," Arthur says as she finally takes the seat next to him. She brings her hand to touch her hair out of sheer consciousness rather than habit, ensuring that her loose curls weren't mangling in the wind.

"Pretty good for writing it during the train ride over right?" Ariadne quips, downing the rest of her champagne. "Please, next time, remind me that I hate public speaking." She looks up to see Arthur looking at her quizzically. "What?"

His face breaks into a smile and his delivery is exaggerated. "But you're so good at it."

Ariadne glares before turning to her other dining partner, one of Rebecca's cousins.

Hours earlier on her last day in Paris, she took the seat next to him at his computer desk in the spare room called his office. He was slumped before the computer screen, reading an e-mail, dressed in a suit, his expression blank. Typical Arthur, wedging in as much work as possible as she packed her bags and wrote her speech. She held a yellow legal pad in one hand, her pen under her nose.

She stood off from the room, studying him for a moment, realizing that something was bothering him. She sensed the tension in his posture, the crease between his eyebrows, the way his hand idly taps the dark desk.

She didn't say anything when she took the spare seat nearby, scooting it closer. The writing pad on her knees with scrawls and scratches. He barely acknowledges her, a small smile on his face as she gave him a nod. She curled her legs under one another, dressed in yoga pants,

"How's the speech?" he asked, gesturing to her lap.

She pulls the pen from under her nose and taps the paper with it. "Remind me again why I waited until the last minute to write this?" she asked, stretching out her hand as she settles in to place a red and silver foil-wrapped ball next to the mouse.

He didn't need to, of course. Two weeks of moving with his help passed quickly. Arthur being who he is was able to help her sublet, settle an apartment in London, go through all of her stuff in half a month. She was in awe of what this man was capable of given a wi-fi signal, a pack of post-its, and a roll of clear Duct tape. She understood why Cobb would want this one on his team at all times.

In the morning, she was going to say good-bye to him, right after Rebecca's wedding.

"What's this?" He asked, picking up the red and gold foil-wrapped ball and inspecting it. His face cleared from any of the strenuousness he just had, but she still pressed him about it. "It's nothing," she replied, holding out the foil ball.

Arthur scrunched up his face. "What is it?"

Ariadne watched him carefully, pulling her wayward hair behind her ears. The hairdresser would take care of it later. "It's a tea cake. I brought back a couple of boxes after apartment scouting, and I thought that you should try them."

She and Rebecca spent a day looking at some of the apartments she and Arthur found online. Rebecca questioned the hurry of many of these plans, also the ability to do so, but Ariadne kept the concept of money vague from her friend. Though, the neighborhoods she found were impressive enough.

Arthur began to peel back foil covering, exposing a smooth chocolate surface underneath. "Am I supposed to just eat this?" he asked, skeptically. "I was told never to just accept candy so freely."

"Well, that's really all the thanks you'll get for helping me move."

He looked at it, then at her warily, double taking slightly. "By the way," he said, his eyes assessing her smoothly. "You have thirty minutes before our train."

"You mean you don't like my hair?" she asked, askance. He continued to study the chocolate in his hands, and when he doesn't respond she assured him that she was already packed and would have professionals do their work on her.

She grabbed a spare cake off the desk and began to unwrap it. "So what's up?" she asked, taking a careful bite as Arthur held his own teacake.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you have your game face on?" she asked, holding the marshmallow-exposed pastry before her. "Clearly something's up."

Arthur sat back and turned to the screen before looking at her. "Nothing."

"That's cute," she responded, taking another bite. "You actually think that'll shake me."

Arthur laughed. "True, but it's really not a big deal. It doesn't affect you."

"But it's bothering you."

Arthur sighed and sat, up, pressing the button to shut off the monitor. "Saito just wants me to do a little traveling for him, is all. He wants me to reconsider settling down here."

Ariadne crumpled the small, empty foil in her hands. "When would you leave?" She licked her fingers as she waits for him to reply.

"In two weeks."

She whistled. "At least you get to pack." He looked at her oddly. "You love packing."

"Yeah well," Arthur exhaled. He spun his chair out and stood, grabbing his jacket off the back and slipping it on. "You ready for this?"

Ariadne looked up, one chocolate covered finger near her lips. "Are you?"

"I'm not the one making the speech tonight," he reminded her, pulling his lapels down. "Or covered in chocolate," he added with a smile, making his way out of the room.

"Arthur wait."

He stopped, hand on the doorframe.

"Would you actually consider going?" she asked, spinning her own chair. "You just finally settled here and you're even letting Liz come over soon. You can't seriously be considering leaving."

Arthur didn't waver in expression and she already understood that he didn't mean to let his cards loose. "Settling in Paris was just an attempt," he said. "I'm not so sure it was the best idea, and Liz would understand." He started out of the room, and she crumpled the foil in her hand, annoyed at his ability to shut her out.

* * *

Like clockwork and thanks to the many reminders from Rebecca and Louis, they checked into the hotel earlier that day amidst the bustle of floral vans and caterers. Two hours out of Paris looked incredibly cinematic with the soft light and the green fields, ideal with quaint buildings and homes capping off the landscape.

She opens the door to Arthur standing there, poised to knock. "Settled?" he asks, lowering his fist to his side and giving her a smile. "I just ran into Rebecca's mother. She wanted to tell me how happy she was that we came together."

Ariadne leaves her door open and goes back to unzipping her garment bag with her bridesmaid dress in it. "Yeah?" she asks, walking barefoot from the bed to the closet. She holds the whispy thing high above her, checking for stains or wrinkles she'd have to manage later. "From what I recall, when she met you at the engagement party, she was head over heels for you."

She hears Arthur take a seat on her bed. "Yeah, well we do have the same taste in Bacon."

Ariadne scoffs, entering the bedroom again. "Oh please," she says with a roll of her eyes. "She was gone by the time she saw your three-piece suit and polished shoes."

Arthur gives her a comedic shrug. "You know very well that you can't help it," Ariadne goes on, her head and hands in her suitcase. She looks him over. "It's part of that dark, mysterious charm you exude. I picked up on it when we first met."

Arthur's very much attention now. "Oh yeah? You got that from Cobb simply introducing us?"

Ariadne stops and looks thoughtful, hairspray and a makeup bag in her hands. "Yeah," she says finally, "though at the time I didn't know that you were going to drug my tea. That might've been what I picked up on."

"You know, said in such a way, we sound like terrible men."

She tilts her head. "You act as if you weren't."

"Does that imply that I'm not any more?" Arthur asks, and Ariadne stopped to consider him, sitting on her bed, dressed casually, and smiling at her. Here they are. Proper friends. Properly settled. Properly comfortable. If anyone had ever told her that Arthur and her would be in this position years after they first met, she would never believe it.

When he called her before she graduated, Ariadne had given up on hearing from him. Sure she had Miles, but asking her mentor for Arthur's contact information was embarrassing, not to mention hackneyed. The man was able to disappear from the world, or so he claimed during the Fischer job. He could ensure that even his family wouldn't be able to find him, and that was with all of the proper information.

No. After that first job, after that final good-bye in the airport near the departures board, Ariadne understood that they were back to strangers again, that whatever the relationship they may have had, it was done.

She never expected to hear from him after that first job.

Ariadne sat in the lawn chair twiddling her thumbs. "So you're an expert dream conman." The last time she was here, she stormed out after Mal stabbed her in the dream, she didn't understand fully where she woke up or who the young man bent near her was, but she did know a mad man when she was in his dream and Dominic Cobb was certainly one of those men. She remembered the pain in her gut acutely, that searing cut of flesh, and she continued to push that part of her middle where the dagger entered her skin, memory bringing pain to the non-existent wound.

Arthur stood over by the tables, elbows deep in what he explained was a PASIV case, playing with tubing, pressing buttons, and rearranging vials. He was very understanding when she walked into the warehouse and started talking. He acted as if he understood it all. He and Cobb knew she would be back. "That I am," he answered, making his way towards her.

She looked up, a little guiltily, "I'm sorry for storming out of here like that before," she said, the words coming out with difficulty. "It must've seemed outlandish…" She remembered waking up suddenly to that terrible pain in her midsection, the boiling anger in her as she looked at an unsteady Cobb leave the room, tossing an order at Arthur so carelessly. She didn't even know this man near her, the man who explained the idea of totems, who understood her anger right off the bat.

"Cobb told me what happened," Arthur interrupted, completing the steps towards her. He took a seat in the lawn chair close to her, sitting at the end where the feet would normally be. "It was normal to react that way. Hell, I'm not even sure why I'm here sometimes," he finished with a hollow laugh as if he understood the same pain, understood the same circumstance. It must've happened to him too.

"Last job we were on, Mal shot me in the knee cap," he explained, fulfilling her suspicion.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Ariadne leaned forward. "So why do you? Cobb doesn't seem the most stable partner to have." That day, when she first locked eyes with Arthur, and he went on so patiently about totems and reality, she left immediately, angry—furious really—grabbing her cardigan and being acutely aware that she was storming off.

Arthur chuckled at the description but didn't seem phased by her. "He's not, but you can't say that it isn't boring." She came back soon after, chagrinned and deeply, deeply mystified. This man stood in the same place of the warehouse as she came in. He understood her completely when she said it.

"You're working in dream worlds to steal secrets," she went on, dubiously. "If that's not the most malleable work environment, I'm not sure what you would consider boring then." None of it seemed boring, none at all. She considered it when she went back to the college, inspiration filling her, inspiration fueling her. In under an hour she created a puzzle box Paris. She created things she never knew could exist in the real world. But it was dangerous to go back. Dominic Cobb was a mess of a person. She just couldn't understand how someone like Arthur could not see the dangers Cobb posed in such a fragile vocation as dream exploration.

Arthur gave her an odd look but conceded with, "True, but Cobb's one of the best. I've been with him for years, and if I'm honest, I trust him more than any other person in the world. Even with his issues, I know that he needs me, and I want to be there for him in any way I can." She looked at him and then down.

Ariadne considered the man before her, the button up and black sweater. He couldn't have been more than three years older than her, and yet he exuded the same old age Cobb had, the same mysteriousness, the same worldliness. Ariadne had never met two people who should be so dissimilar but were made for one another. "Even with what you're asking me to do, I'm not sure I'm here for the right reasons then."

"There's no shame in wanting the adventure," Arthur said, speaking frankly. She woke up gasping, squirming, to the realization that her surroundings were alien to her, and suddenly there he was, right next to her. She didn't know whether to trust him or suspect him. "It's sweetly admirable," he said at this moment.

"I would feel flattered if that didn't sound so patronizing." He was a reassuring presence, when she began to feel that Cobb was unstable.

"It's meant as a compliment," he assured her, getting out of his seat. "Now, if you're ready, I think we'll start. I promised you paradoxical architecture."

Ariadne nodded, her eyes following him as he stood and took a few steps towards the table. "You know, we've met before, but I honestly have no recollection of it."

"To be fair we did drug you," Arthur said as he brought a silver suitcase back to the area of the lawn chairs, "so that would explain it. Cobb offered to discuss the plans of the job over coffee, and he brought you here, gave you a cup of tea and the rest was that dream really."

Ariadne tried to dig deep in the recesses of her memory to find this so-called meeting. "So we never met formally?"

Arthur sat the case down on a table near the opposite lawn chair. "Briefly, but not really, no."

"Well," she said and clears her throat. "I'm Ariadne."

Arthur turned and looked at her, almost questioningly. "Arthur."

"Nice to meet you."

He smiled. Ariadne liked the way his eyes crinkled as he did it. "Likewise."

She sat back in her chair, holding her arm out for help with the needle and tubing. "I hope this works out, the last dream I was in, I was stabbed in the sternum."

Arthur didn't look at her, focusing on her sleeve as he rolled up her wrist for the IV, but he smiled almost despite himself. "I'm sure it will," he replied.

* * *

The music wafts through the healthy spring air, past the milling dancers and crowds of the reception, under the fairy lights hanging overhead, and through the trees and surrounding green fields of the small cottage hotel.

Ariadne spots him standing near the bar, dressed to the nines in a tux and slouching on one side as the bartender brings him a drink. "So how about her?" she asks as a greeting, settling next to him at the bar, plopping a drink near his hand. Arthur looks over at the girl Ariadne points at. She's tall, blonde, speaking to a small group of friends at one of the tables nearby. It's one of Rebecca's cousins from the United States.

"Are we going to do this tonight?" Arthur laments, taking a sip from his drink. The last few nights, her attempts to set Arthur up in Paris ended in duds. He dragged his feet when she would invite him anywhere else.

"Do what?" Ariadne asks, sidling next to him.

He continues with his drink. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Ariadne."

Ariadne arranges her features to look adequately perplexed. She holds her drink up and looks into its context. "Which is?"

He catches her eye, forcing her to see his seriousness. "You're trying to set me up before you leave, and while I admire the effort, I can manage on my own."

She shrugs, turning to face out towards the rest of the reception. "I'm just trying to get you out there Arthur. When I leave, and Rebecca and Louis leave, who or what will keep you in Paris?"

The question is said with more anger than she intended, and Arthur looks annoyed. He mirrors her stance. "I can make friends."

"You work as a private investigator for a man you used to work illegally for. It's not really the best place to make friends Arthur."

"I can make new friends," he corrects.

She turns to him. "Arthur."

He faces her. "Ariadne."

She leans back. "I just worry."

He laughs. "There's really no need. I have it all under control."

"Arthur, I hardly see you now that you're a tail—" her face changes expression, recalling an untruth such as— "hiding in dark alleyways, coming up with disguises." She drops the joke and resumes a more serious tone. "You deserve to be happy, Arthur. You deserve a real home to have some sort of stability in your life."

Adamantly he stands up straighter, and she notices how he decides to fall onto the more benign portion of her speech. "Why do you essentially stereotype every job I fall into?"

Ariadne starts, unhearing. "Oh she's getting up now," she says, pointing at the woman. "Go ask her if she wants a drink."

Arthur hardly budges. "Clearly she is, she's heading towards us."

"Arthur."

"Ariadne."

She struggles and places a forceful hand on his elbow. "At least try."

Arthur sighs, yet stays still. Her efforts are comedic in the want of actual movement. "Ariadne, it's your last night in France—" she shoves him again—"forgive me if I'd want to actually spend some time with you." She gives another slight jab to his elbow, which he uses to grab and tug. With a slight "ouf" on her part, he has her pulled away from the bar, facing him. Her hand tightly held in his.

She resists as much as she can, digging in her heels. "Come on," Arthur says, holding her arm out in front of her.

Realization hits her quickly, when she sees where they're heading. She looks at the swaying couples in elegant stances, the milling couples giving way to Arthur's lead. She attempts to extricate her arm and turns this way then that, looking for escape. "Please don't, come on, this is—" he arranges her hands. One on his shoulder and the other in his hand. A triumphant smile on his lips. "Oh we're really doing this," she comments as he pulls her against him.

"It's happening," he agrees flatly, though with his expression, she can see that he's enjoying her discomfort. "Don't look so sullen. It's just dancing," Arthur says, adjusting his hold on her shoulder and the one on her hip. He drags her more firmly into the dance floor, feeling her resistance in her stance.

Ariadne glowers. "Have you had your fun?"

Arthur looks surprised, swaying her with the music. "You don't dance?"

She frowns. "No." Despite her stubborn inflexibility, Arthur is able to move her around in a seeming fashion.

"You've been living in Paris for six years now," he says incredulously, "and you haven't been out dancing?"

Ariadne refrains from pouting or from being a sore loser. She allows him the leeway of movement as he navigates the dance floor. "It's not the city of dancing Arthur," she rejoinders.

"No," he says with a laugh, "but Tom never took you?"

Ariadne watches a couple nearby and wonders if they look just as graceful or tactful as they do. "Tom doesn't like dancing either," Ariadne replies quickly. "It's probably why we were meant for each other." She says it so haphazardly, before she realizes her comment and reddens, looking away, more of her resistance giving as her features fumble through emotions.

Arthur politely looks over her shoulder, but he leans close to whisper, "Just stand still. I'll drag you along."

And Ariadne can't help the comment on her tongue as Arthur maneuvers them smoothly, a true testament to his skill because she sincerely doesn't want to go anywhere. "That's exactly what every girl would like to hear."

"I suppose grinning and bearing it isn't an option?" he asks as they sway to the familiar strains of an old Parisian favorite.

"Only forced," she answers with a saccharine smile.

The couples around them go on swimmingly charming, swaying with renewed appreciation to the beginning of the well-known Edith Piaf song and enjoying the ambience created by the glowing candles, the smell of gardenias, the wedding festivities, and the general French atmosphere found no where else. Ariadne finds Rebecca in the crowd, swaying in Louis' arms without a care in the world. Blissful looking.

As the familiar opening rises, Ariadne realizes that it's the Louis Armstrong version of it. The trumpet and the awkward bump of the beat replace Edith's voice. The bomp of the song matches the awkward tension of her dancing. It's Ariadne's version, the one she remembers listening to on the plane ride before she started grad school. The one she played when she set up her apartment during her first term. The same song she listened to in the warehouse when she first started dream design. Though she felt traitorous listening to the English cover of the renown French song.

She knows each beat acutely. It brings her back to those first feelings of settling into the new city, the new culture, the prospect of starting a new life, the prospect of sharing a dream. That queasy anticipation she lived for, especially in dreams.

She hums along, thinking about how well-timed it is, this being her last night in France, and as if Arthur can pick up on these sentiments—or maybe it's just her expression—he asks her about it.

"This song was on repeat when I first got here," Ariadne muses, not as adamantly against the dancing now, almost enjoying it despite herself. She used to sway to it in her first apartment, washing dishes to cope with the homesickness. "I was obsessed."

The trumpet gives way to Louis' voice as it doles out in a quavering deep bass. The intended French lyrics sweetly simple as he starts in English:

_Hold me close and hold me fast…_

"With Paris?" Arthur questions lightly moving her easily or perhaps she's just less self-conscious of it as he maneuvers them, following Arthur's lead without quarrel.

…_the magic spell you cast…_

A new country, a new job, a new home. Everything from scratch awaits her in London. There's no stability or even the help of belonging to a university to help her make friends or keep the pond small. "I'm going to miss all of this," she says, a little bit of that fear edging into her voice.

_This is la vie en rose..._

"You'd be dead inside if you didn't," Arthur assures her. She listens carefully when he says that she'll be fine, that she'll find London just as magical once she's there, that Paris will still be there when she needs to come back. She wants to believe his words and she repeats them to herself for memory, hoping to comfort herself with them later.

…_and though I close my eyes..._

"Well," she begins, forcing friendliness in her tone, "you'll be able to enjoy the sights, and you'll fall in love with the city." She says this with a throwaway hint of bitterness in her voice and roll of her eyes. Arthur pulls her tighter, reassuring her with his presence.

…_I see la vie en rose._

"Who says I haven't already?" he asks teasingly, but in such a way that ends all of the lightheartedness. Arthur continues to guide her along and they go on without looking at one another, swaying to the swell of the trumpet and the bounding of the piano keys in the song. Ariadne follows him unconsciously.

_When you press me to your heart..._

Ariadne swallows for the sake of her dry throat and looks up at him. It's her last night in France, she thinks again. Ill timing and somewhat ill-planning on her part made it fall upon this night for some reason, half of her seeing it as the perfect way to say good-bye, the other half bemoaning the choice as it reminds her of everything and everyone she'll leave behind.

…_I'm in a world apart…_

Perhaps it's that thought, that consuming sprout of a reminder, that she feels the courageous, curious spark inside her. She looks up at Arthur determinedly, assessing. Her eyes faltering at his eyes, his chin, his lips. She goes back to his eyes, catching his attention with her focus. "Arthur?" she asks, her voice dry but determination egging her on.

"Hmm?" he quizzes back.

…_a world where roses bloom…_

She clears her throat again, licking her lips before going into it again. "Why," she feels his attention focus on her and she loses ground momentarily. She tries again. "Why haven't we talked about it before?"

At his lost expression, she elaborates. "Why _did_ you kiss me in the second level on the Fischer job?"

_And when you speak…_

The music swells around them, and Ariadne feels the closeness of the other couples on the dance floor. She tightens her hold on his hand as she waits.

…_angels sing from above…_

Arthur continues to lead her closely, her hand in his, their bodies near. She sees that the frankness of the questions startles him for a moment but barely. He keeps moving, distracting himself with the gentle swaying and the slight scuffle of their feet as he collects himself. His expression doesn't waver as he replies, as if he's known what to say before she even had the courage to ask him for it. "Because I wanted to kiss you way before all of it," he starts.

…_everyday words seem…_

"Before Cobb decided you should come, before we entered the dream, before so many other things, I realized I missed my chance in reality. I had to settle for my dream."

…_to turn into love songs…_

Ariadne can't help that cheesy smile on her lips as she hears this, as she drinks in these words. She keeps her chin level as she considers it all. A small, thoughtful sigh escapes her. "Hunh."

_Give your heart and soul to me…_

Arthur's calm and collected as he continues to guide her along. "What?"

_And life will always be…_

Ariadne shakes her head, smiling at the inside joke. "Nothing. Nothing," she reassures him. "It's just—" she stops and reconsiders before pelting forward, calmly controlled. "You weren't going to say anything were you?"

…_la vie en rose._

* * *

"Why that song?" The question echoed in the empty warehouse. Yusuf left for lunch, while Eames was in the States doing recon studying Browning. Lord knew where Cobb and Saito were off to, which left only one possible voice to that question.

Arthur looked up and saw Ariadne standing near his desk. At this acknowledgement, she sat down at a nearby chair. He noted how her hair's pulled back today and that the scarf she wore was a new one.

Arthur sat back in his desk chair. "Je ne regrette rien," he said, repeating the line in an exhale, already thinking way back to when the song was first used in their experiments.

"I regret nothing," she added. "Is it like an anthem to your thievery?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, actually." He cleared his throat, something he noticed he started when he would bring Mal up. It must've been a developed instinct because of Cobb and how wary he had to be around the extractor. "She loved that line. She used to say it for anything, making decisions, big or small." He laughed to himself. "Once, in a bar, she got it into her head that she could beat these two hot shots at pool. They were making a big deal, and I guess that it really got to her. So she decided that she was going to teach them a lesson, by kicking their ass at their own game."

"I'm guessing she did."

"She didn't. It was really sad to watch really. Mal was never really good at pool and she lost pretty badly, much to her chagrin, but she stuck it out and acted so confident, despite the hecklers around her. Cobb asked her later if she was satisfied with herself, and she replied."

Ariadne was smiling now, her hands in her lap as she looked into the distance. "Je ne regrette rien." She focused back into the present. "She sounds confident."

"She was. You have to be that way to really get as far as she did in dreaming."

"And Cobb still plays it?"

"I don't think he really thinks about it too often. It's gotten to the point that if we heard any other song playing, I doubt we'd acknowledge it."

Ariadne nodded along. "The totem, the song. Mal left a big mark on how everything works around here." She said it appreciatively, in awe of this woman who sounded fantastic and lovely, according to Arthur's accounts, but who came off as sinister and foreboding in the projections she had seen.

"Every job's different from scale to goal to design. It's kind of nice to have those small consistencies to go rely on in such a big pond."

"Something you can rely on," Ariadne replied, understanding.

"Something like that, yes."

* * *

Ariadne takes the seat next to Arthur, a piece of cake poised on her dish, a fork in her hands. He looks up from staring at the fracas of the bouquet toss and shakes his head when she offers him some. Ariadne pulls up another chair for her feet, scooting it closer so she could sit with her legs propped up to balance her cake plate on her knees. She kicks her heels off under the table.

"When you said you'd be back in a minute, I assumed that you'd be out there," he says, sitting back.

Ariadne stabs a few pieces of the white cake and pops them into her mouth. "I wanted food more," she replies, watching the group as Rebecca looks over her shoulder.

"There's still time," he says, gesturing half-heartedly with his hand. "You can still get out there."

"Is this your way of getting rid of me?" she quizzes, taking another bite. "Because I'm still going to make you talk about it."

Arthur smiles ruefully. "Look, maybe we shouldn't—" The small team of women cheer as Rebecca's blonde cousin comes out the victor, brandishing the pink cluster of peonies above her shoulders.

"It's my last night, Arthur. I'd rather not leave with loose strings."

Arthur looks at her, assessing, and Ariadne cools her features into some semblance of readiness, as if that's what he's looking for anyway.

Using the fork, she rolls a piece of the cake around on her plate, and it suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. "You tricked me," she points out, getting everything started. He sees the debate on her features as she talks to the cake. "In the second level, you tricked me into doing it."

"It did seem the smoothest way to do it at the time," he replies quickly, easily.

"I wanted you to kiss me that night we went out," she recalls, almost astounded by her frankness in admittance. "The night I punched you in the arm instead," she elaborates.

Arthur immediately remembers it, and he nods along. "I thought about it, when we stood there."

She stops moving. "Why didn't you?"

Arthur thinks back to that night, standing outside the bar, looking at her. The weeks of trying to push her away and for what? Of course, Ariadne wouldn't go away so quietly. Of course, she'd demand an explanation from him, and of course, he would give her one.

He stood outside with her that night, playing out the possibility of closing that gap and kissing her, breaching that small amount of space and the repercussions it could have for them. They were still working together on this job. They still had time. They still had to be professional.

"Because we were working together," he explains. "I didn't know what to do with you then, and I still didn't know what to do with you." He lounges back. She gestures with her plate and he takes the fork, stabbing a piece for himself.

She holds the extended plate as he takes another. "So you stood for tricking me in a dream," she reiterates with a slight smile, almost recollecting it. Arthur relishes the vanilla taste in his mouth.

Arthur hadn't felt that attraction for a while. Standing outside with Ariadne, waiting for action on someone's part. He wanted to kiss her and see what would happen, if only to act on an impulse Arthur hadn't tried in a while because of his position and job. He wanted to do it because he felt he wanted to.

"And what about our most recent endeavor?" she asks.

Before he could, that damnable pragmatic Arthur came through. He thought about the job and the others. He remembered that he was there for his friend. He remembered that they were teammates. He took a step away from her and she reached for him. A small part of him wished that she went against his own motivations, but then again, that small part of him withered in disappointment as she punched him in the arm, friendly.

In his seat, Arthur frowns, chewing. "I wanted to give you a way out because of Tom, because of the situation, and because of you." He swallows. At her almost offended expression, he goes on. "I know you Ariadne. You've been avoiding me for years."

Her reply's to the point, offense making her unthinking. "I haven't."

Arthur doesn't deign it with a response but watches as she sizes him up, like a challenge. "Why did you kiss me first then?" he asks instead, bringing her back to the discussion. She sits back, taking her plate back into her lap.

She looks up, the answer plain in her mind, "Because I wanted to." She watches him carefully. "Despite the inebriation and despite the stress," she says with a laugh at herself, "I think I knew I could get away with it just that once. It was the only time I could brave it."

The small sentiment strikes him and he speaks the words to himself more than her. "You wanted to too," he says, almost like a revelation. He takes the fork again and stabs the small pieces left.

He may have suggested the kiss in the dream, but she leaned in first.

"Yes."

He takes a bite. "All this time?"

She doesn't even stop to consider it. "I believe so, yes."

Arthur pivots to face her properly, placing the fork back onto the dish. "So what do we do now?"

"Now," she repeats as Ariadne places her empty plate and useless fork onto the table at her elbow. "Now, we're not going to kiss."

"Is that so?"

"I'm serious."

He's still chuckling in disbelief. "I completely understand."

"Just because I admitted that I may have had a tiny crush on you once or twice—" she adds a bit hesitatingly.

"Twice? Really I'm impressed. I'm not sure I can handle all of this candidness."

"Shove it Arthur. We're not going to kiss."

"Me thinks the lady doth protest too much."

Ariadne's arms cross her chest and she resists the urge to frown. Out on the dance floor, Arthur follows her gaze to see Louis and Rebecca resume their hold of one another as Rebecca's blonde cousin, the bouquet in her grasp, takes hold of another gentleman. Everyone gathers around with their own partners as the music begins to creep back on.

Ariadne takes a breath and exhales smoothly. "Why didn't you ever say anything?" she asks, and his laughter dies down, ending with a shrug. Everyone's on the floor now, swaying and smiling to the slump of jazz gaining momentum.

Arthur looks sheepish but respectable as he replies. "I was embarrassed."

"So was I."

He sits back to face the dance floor, the in-time couples. "Then you know the feeling."

She seems frustrated. "But if you said something or if I did sooner, then maybe—"

And Arthur cuts her off. "It seems that everyone said something but us."

"Yes." She sighs. "I'm leaving tomorrow," she thinks aloud, and he follows her gaze, watching for Rebecca, her dress glowing under the lantern and fairy lights.

"I know."

"And you were the one who encouraged me the most to leave," she can't help but point out.

"I wasn't going to let you give up this opportunity Ariadne. It's too fantastic to ruin." Arthur notices how Ariadne cannot help but smile as Rebecca finds her friend on the edge of the dancers, as she takes her head off of her husband's chest and waves for her to come join them.

"You think so little of yourself if you say that," Ariadne says, waving back.

"I'd almost call that a compliment, coming from you."

"Coming from me," she repeats, and Rebecca's eyes shift towards Arthur then back at Ariadne, wide as saucers. Ariadne turns away, to the matter at hand, "And you just started living here and might leave soon," she points out. "What crap timing on my part."

"Yeah, I can't believe you'd take a great opportunity like that rather than stay here." Ariadne frowns. He adds, "Ariadne, I wouldn't have stopped you for anything."

"Yeah, I know," she concedes. "But you should stay."

"What?"

"The job Saito wants you to take?" she chides. "He wants you to travel with him, but you know that you don't want that Arthur."

"I haven't told him anything."

"I know, but now that I'm leaving, I'm not so sure that you won't leave too."

The expression he gives her is hollow. "Don't flatter yourself."

She doesn't say anything, but Arthur concedes her point. "You need to settle now, Arthur, if only so your family can visit and actually call you." She scoots closer to him. "You should just accept the lifestyle. They'll be here in a few months, right? And we can always be together. It's a two-hour train ride."

He can't figure her out. He doesn't ask for specific but he looks at her. "We spent years being friends apart, I don't think it would be the same thing being together far away," he says carefully.

She shrugs, seeming to take that as an answer. "You could've stopped me, if we just talked about this earlier."

"Even then, I'd make you go." Through his periphery, he sees Rebecca inclining her head in their direction, despite being ten feet away.

Ariadne turns away from her. "You're too noble for your own good sometimes Arthur," she says.

And Arthur decides to play it light. "I'd say thank you, if that felt like a compliment."

"Oh it is. Of the highest order," she goes on. She smiles, determined. "I think I'll tell people that when I introduce them to my boyfriend for the next twelve hours." Arthur looks at her, a smile ready in his expression.

"_Boyfriend_? This seems to be progressing pretty fast," he says, deadpan. "I mean, shouldn't we have had that talk first?" Arthur can't help the cheesy smile on her own lips, matching her expression.

"What do you call this—" she points at the space between them, from him to her— "then?"

Arthur plays along, tilting his head in mock-weary fashion, gruffly adjusting his tie as if to prepare. "What is it exactly that we do as a couple?" he asks, finally.

She pats her lap with both of her palms. "Anything you'd like."

"Good." He stands up, holding out his hand for her to take. She stands, barefoot. "I want more cake."

* * *

"And that's all you've done since you decided to become in item? Dance and get cake?" Rebecca asks, a smidge of disapproval mingling with suspiciousness in her voice as she faces the large bathroom mirror. She adjusts strayaways from her hair, smacks her lips.

Ariadne looks at her beautiful friend in the mirror. The gown was a find at a random boutique during her lunch break. Rebecca called her that afternoon with slight trepidation, almost reverential in the idea of the dress, but when Ariadne saw it, she knew that Rebecca should have it. It had a slight pouf from a small crinoline and the lace and sleeves looked beautiful under the glowing strings of fairy lights in the reception.

Ariadne leans on the wall behind Rebecca. "Yeah. Once Arthur ate, I told him I had to do my maid of honor duties for you, and that's why I'm here." Ariadne takes a moment to think about it. "I also ran into your mother and had to talk to a few of your relatives for a bit. Your Uncle Ralston said the funniest thing—"

Rebecca's face breaks into shock. "Ariadne!"

Ariadne starts. "What? It wasn't bad. He just said that—"

The reflection of their eyes lock, and Rebecca leans forward, her hands press against the sink rim. "Please, tell me that you're at least going to suck face later," Rebecca says. She stops and hears what she just said. "With Arthur," she corrects.

Ariadne blushes for her friend's frank use high school slang. Actually, strike that. Ariadne hadn't heard that phrase used since she was in middle school, and even then, it was used by those older and were hardly for anyone part of her generation. "Who says sucks face?" she asks.

Rebecca waves this off easily. "Are you at least going to be together now? Is he moving to London with you?"

Ariadne feels continuously taken aback by her friend's questions, by the rapidity, and the general expansion of it. From something so local to something so grand. "Please don't make this any bigger than it is."

Rebecca's face wrinkles in understanding. "Are you guys going to try to make this work past right now?" She turns away to face Ariadne directly.

She asked him, Ariadne wants to point out. She asked him and he turned it down. Ariadne pushes herself off the wall. "We just started dating Becks, I think you're jumping the gun here."

"I'm jumping the gun? Ariadne. I could strangle you right now."

"I suspect you want to, yes."

"Let me get this straight, you both decided that you're boyfriend-and-girlfriend in however many hours left you have in France, and you think I'm the one who's jumping the gun?"

Ariadne takes a step and leans against the counter. She attempts reasonability. "Rebecca." Placed in such a light, everything sounds contrived.

"What are you doing here? Why are you wasting your time with me? Why aren't you sucking face behind the bushes or something? Or better yet, why are you leaving early to use that suite I booked you?"

"Why does it have to jump to those things so quickly? We just started dating."

Rebecca sags, taking her time to reply. "Ariadne, I've been listening to all of this unspoken tension between you two for years. You didn't 'just' anything."

Ariadne looks at her friend and bites her lip before responding. "Rebecca, I say this as calmly as I can because it is your wedding day and I don't want to punch you in the boob, but really, we're fine being this way, being twelve-hour boyfriend and girlfriend until I leave in the morning. After that, we agreed that it won't go any further."

Rebecca starts. "Yeah, but—"

Ariadne shakes her head. "Nope."

"But—"

"No."

Rebecca pouts. "You're really rude, you know? It is my wedding."

Ariadne rolls her eyes and exhales. "Fine. What is it oh-wedded one?" She steps back, almost allowing whatever verbal reality her friend will make known.

"You forget that after dating, it's never that easy to get back to being friends."

Ariadne's answer is quick. "We're different."

"Yeah. Well, do you like him at least?" And Ariadne answers in the affirmative, a feeling of meekness overcoming her for a moment as she considers quickly the answer and the repercussions of it. What was it that she said to Rebecca just a few nights ago? They were better off this way? Did she mean it then?

She suspiciously considered the curiosity in her. Arthur and her were friends. Best, they agreed, though she hated to voice it aloud, and yes, she admits that she kissed him first. And yes it might not have been the first time she wanted him to kiss her or that they even kissed, but it was—

That's odd. A part of her wanted to admit that it was amazing.

Ariadne thinks over her feelings for Arthur and she decides she's uncomfortable with thinking about him that way.

She'd hate to lead him on, but when she proposed this evening of pretending, she never really considered it in any other way but that. It's pretending. It's a venture. They're agreeing to this experiment then going back to normal right?

"Are you happy that you're dating or are you just doing this out of peer pressure?" Rebecca asks.

Ariadne looks up. "It was my idea in the first place."

Rebecca looks happily superior at her. "Sweetie, that doesn't answer the question at all."

Ariadne takes in her lips, licking them. "I don't know," she admits. "He might leave soon," she says instead. "I could lose him entirely."

Rebecca gathers her friend into a hug and Ariadne goes in reluctantly. "It's not going to be as easy as you think it is," her friend replies.

* * *

"What's with the rookie?"

Arthur looked up from his laptop to see Eames positioned at his worktable, leaning on his hip. The tousled Englishman shot a careless glance towards the far corner of the warehouse where Ariadne stood with Cobb and Yusuf, intently discussing logistics.

"Cobb found her. Miles' new protégé, apparently," Arthur said amidst the typing of his keyboard.

"Miles, eh?" Eames asked, more for his own peace of mind, Arthur assumed. He dipped his nose further into his work as the forger continued to talk. "Is that wise though? A gamble like this, and Cobb thinks it best to get a novice?"

"I pretty much stopped questioning Cobb's methods years ago," Arthur replied tersely.

"Some say madness is a method," Eames reasoned, turning to face the group far off. "But still, Artie, she's never even done a proper extraction. Who's to say that she's ready for this sort of thing?"

"I doubt any of us are ready for it. Essentially, we're all on the same learning curve."

There was a beat of silence as Arthur continued to skim over documents concerning Browning. "You like her."

Eames' voice was sudden and unexpected, like his words. Arthur looked up. "Excuse me?"

Eames shrugged. "Why else would you agree to this added hair-brained idea to an already hair-brained scheme?" Arthur met Eames's eyes over his laptop screen. "She must be damned impressive if you like her so much."

"What makes you think I like her?"

Eames smirked, a silent joke unto himself. "I'm not sure, but you're less _rigid_ for some reason. Something like this, you'd normally need more of a reason."

"Cobb—"

"—has his children," Eames finished, "yes, but there's something about this plan that had to cement it for you."

"And you think it's the girl?" Arthur asked with more derision than he meant. He looked over at Ariadne talking to the two men.

Eames leaned forward conspiratorially. "In my experience, if there's even a hint that it could be a girl," he said with a slight head nod in Ariadne's direction, "it's most definitely the girl."

"I am more and more convinced that you need more friends."

Eames winked at him and Arthur went back to typing, leaving Eames to his thoughts.

Leave it to Eames to dilute friendly loyalty into something nonexistent. Arthur began to skim an article, his eyes doing most of the work, as he thought about it. Stupid Eames. The plan was farfetched and with the addition of Eames and Saito, not to mention a rookie architect and a chemist he'd never heard of, all of the pieces were too haphazard for his taste really. At least with Nash, they worked with him before. There was history. But with this mismatched team, he couldn't tell what would come of it. Granted, Nash didn't go over well on the last job.

During training with Ariadne, he asked her to build a small layout, testing some of the paradoxical architecture he showed her.

And he wasn't surprised when she did.

He walked up the stone staircase of what appeared to be a university library. The tapestries on the limestone walls and damp smell of books gave him a hint of the age.

"Very good," Arthur said, walking over and over around the staircase.

"Good enough to handle this job?" she asked, following him as he retakes his steps.

"Cobb and Miles think so."

"But do you?" He turned to her, perplexed as to why his own opinion mattered in this case. Ariadne, he was told, was made for dreamscapes. Miles said so, and Cobb trusted Miles. Cobb said so, and Arthur trusted Cobb. Ergo, Arthur thought so, though he had to admit that the more he spent time with her, the more he understood Cobb's willingness to sign her up.

She was quick to notice Cobb's instability. Quick to ask about Cobb's history, choosing to confront it head on. He had to admire that.

"I think," Arthur said, stopping. "That if I were on the chasing end of your maze, I'd be extremely frustrated."

Ariadne smiled broadly, her hands in her pockets. "Thank you Arthur." She seemed smugly pleased with his compliment and Arthur smiled too, a little chuffed at her fishing. "Do you want to see something?" she asked, and Arthur noted the small challenge in her tone, her stance. She leaned a little forward.

"That depends really."

That minxy smile stayed on her face she nodded to his left, where a tapestry hung. Arthur looked at it, perplexed. "I don't—" he turned to her. That damnable smile still there, egging him.

She lifted her eyebrows. "Go ahead. Just step forward."

Arthur did as she said, tepidly, then noticed that the walls were a series of well placed dividers, the tapestry pattern continuing so well that when he stepped back he couldn't tell that it gave way. The portion of wall lacked shadows or any feeling of depth to give it away. He looked at her, surprised.

She shrugged, scrunching her nose up apologetically. "I really liked _The Labyrinth_ growing up."

Arthur studied the wall. He remembered that part. Sarah was just starting the labyrinth when a portion of the brick wall did something similar to this design. It was more of a trick of the eye than anything. Of course, many times over the years, when Arthur went through mazes, he would recall that movie, sometimes laughingly. Cobb never understood what he meant when he brought it up, but Liz had an obsession with that movie. She made him watch it often growing up, telling his child self that she could always give him away to the Goblin King if he didn't behave.

"David Bowie in tight pants and playing the goblin king," Arthur said, still studying the handiwork. "Who wouldn't like it?" He heard her small laugh as he took another step back to see if he could see the seams of her design. It was so small, contained, but clever. Something like this clearly wouldn't work in the real world, but he could feel the trickery of the physics.

Ariadne went around him and took a step into the wall. "We're going to get on just fine," she said, taking a left at the trick-of-the-eye doorway.

Arthur followed her through. "Who said we wouldn't?"

Arthur scrolled through the document again, ignoring Eames, his eyes unfocused. "Hello," a familiar voice greeted. Arthur peaked over the screen of his laptop and looked up. He felt the table shift as Eames pushed himself off and made a step towards Ariadne.

Eames eased next to her. "So tell me, you're the girl, huh?"

She looked amused. "The girl? Is that what I'm called these days?"

"I'd hardly call it inaccurate," Eames said with slight flirtation. Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes openly.

He put his hand out. "Geoffrey Eames."

"Ariadne." She took it. "Nice to meet you Mr. Eames."

They shook, and he leaned forward. "Please, just Eames. Only stick-in-the-mud—" he inclined his head to gesture to Arthur—"calls me _Mr_. Eames."

Ariadne followed the gesture with a suppressed expression on her features. She faced the Englishman. "I see."

Eames seemed delighted by that. "Do you?" He shot a gleeful expression at Arthur, before turning back to her. "And what brings you here to the lowly world of dream con, dear?"

Ariadne smirked. "I'd hardly call it lowly Eames."

"Don't mind him," Arthur piped up. "I'd keep my distance actually."

Ariadne quirked a brow at him.

Eames smiled good-naturedly. "Don't mind him, really. You don't want to catch whatever panty-bunching illness he has."

Arthur saw red. He could see that Eames was enjoying himself all the more. "So tell me, Ariadne, you're the girl who folded Paris in half?" At Ariadne's stunned expression, Eames continued. "Cobb told me all about it. And what has dear old Arthur been teaching you?"

Ariadne looked at Arthur, then at Eames, judging him up and down. "I'd say that's between me and Arthur," she replied coolly, jutting one last look at Arthur before walking away.

Eames turned towards Arthur, a little taken aback but, being Eames, remarkably recovered. "Not bad," he said with a laugh.

* * *

"What's with Rebecca?" he asks her as she sidles up to him at the bar again.

Ariadne looks over her shoulder at the bride as Rebecca makes her way towards Louis. "I think she was hoping for something more when I told her. She sent me over here to make-out with you."

Arthur almost spat out his drink. "I'm sorry. What?"

"She says that if we're calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend in this ridiculous scheme of ours, then why don't we just have at it." She gestures to the bartender for a drink.

Arthur studies Ariadne, though she remains unconcerned. "I'm not sure what to make of any of this, and if I'm honest, I'm uncomfortable."

"You're uncomfortable! I was the one on the receiving end of the lecture."

Arthur has to nod at that, sipping his drink politely, watching the reception in full swing. The concept of their last hours of being in a relationship is cute. He hates to think of it that way, but essentially that's what this scheme is. Years of loving her—because let's face it, he does—and nothing's been said until now. He's been acting under the moniker of friendship, knowing that where she is, he needs to be but never fully understanding what that meant to him.

She suggested they try it. She's the one who suggested it first, but he turned her down, telling her he wouldn't want it that way. Not at all. He loves her too much to not let her try this.

But the admittance that she wanted to kiss him too, that she had a tiny crush on him twice, are small cute terms one wouldn't really think about attributing to two, capable, mature adults, especially with one being Arthur. There's no other word for it, because beyond it all, Arthur could see that she loves him just as much back.

There's build up one always expects, but the process is so slow, so natural and so comfortable that even stepping back to talk about it makes it less real, almost. Because there comes that point where they should understand one another.

Just the suggestion of this twelve-hour relationship made him realize that. He always thought it but never said, that she did too.

But he turned her down when she suggested anything further because he realized that he hadn't settled down at all. Of course he had the apartment, the couch, the utensils in the kitchen, but Arthur realized that the only contribution he could make now was conning.

And he wasn't sure how he could go back to the real world like that.

"So what do we do? Ever since we decided to do this, we actually spent more time apart," he asks.

He agrees to this scheme because he wants to, because it's her suggestion, and simply because he feels that she wants it that way. Twelve hours with her, with the protection of a title has multiple meanings. Apparently to Rebecca it means making out with her during the reception, and while he spent most of this relationship getting cake and watching the guests, he actually wouldn't mind pulling Ariadne close to him, wrapping his arms around her and being able to—

"To be fair, we're fifty percent through the term of our relationship, and you have yet to take me out on a date," she says, slightly unimpressed.

Arthur tilts his head. "What do you call this then?"

"Technically, this is two friends going together to a mutual friends' wedding. I feel extremely neglected and uncourted." She pauses before adding, "De-woo-ed, some would say."

A date. Arthur and Ariadne are going on a date. The simplicity of that statement makes him laugh. They'd never been on a date before, and actually the lifestyle of dream conman didn't really demand that much room for dating properly. Arthur hadn't dated in a while. A long while. He regrets never having taken this girl on one till now.

He looks at his watch. It's late. Too late to treat her out properly. Too late for him to plan. His mind goes through options quickly. "I'd say everything in the village is closed and if you don't count dinner and dancing a date, then I'm not sure I can live up to expectations," he replies smoothly, his arm winding slowly at her waist. He feels the slight jolt of surprise from her, but she doesn't say anything.

"Why don't you try?" she teases, leaning into his arm.

"I assume taking you to the train station in the morning wouldn't count either?"

She shakes her head, smiling.

Arthur sighs. "Fine. Where do you want to go?"

"I'm sorry," she says, leaning out of his embrace. "Is this you asking me out on a date?"

Arthur smiles and turns to face her properly. The fact that he has a tux on and she's wearing a floor-length gown strikes him as he starts the question in his head. "Ariadne?" he says with a carefully constructed meek look.

"Yes, Arthur?" she asks, playing along modest expectation. The string of lights behind him reflect back to him in her brown eyes as she widens them.

He takes her hands to play it up. "Would you be available to go out with me?" At her silence he goes on, "on a date? Will you. Go on. A date. With me?"

Ariadne gives a slight gasp, "Why Arthur how completely unexpected. This is all very much surprising." Arthur levels a look at her and she calms down before replying, "I would love to."

"Great. I'll pick you up at eight."

"Are we going somewhere fancy or casual? I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be wearing."

Arthur laughs and goes on. "Anything. A scarf, naturally, but anything you want." He pulls her towards him, grabbing her hand. He notices that she looks behind her, before accepting their direction away from the lit dance floor.

"Where are we going?" she asks, following him up into the lawn and towards the small hotel. They're farther away now. The music from the reception sounds dull in the background, the lights and figures blurs of happiness. Every so often, she'll hear a crowd cheer or a loud laugh come from them. Ahead of her is the hotel, the small garden before them, the windows lit. Arthur and she stand in semi-darkness. The cool air whips up again and floats around the layers of her skirt.

She lets go of Arthur's hand as he trudges forward, then stops because she does. Arthur shrugs and faces her. "I was thinking our usual place," he goes on, and she knits her brows in confusion. "I know we go there anyway, but we've never been there as a couple."

Ariadne looks at him, holding her left elbow with her right arm as she listens.

"But," he says. "If you prefer, we can always try some place new. Maybe fancier or closer to the Eiffel Tower for ambiance. I personally would like to avoid the heavier tourist areas." Ariadne thinks about his preference for Closerie des Lilas, then she nods in understanding.

"And if I want to go find a McDonald's for our first date?"

Arthur frowns but agrees. "If that's really where you want this date to go, then I guess you don't have to worry about what to wear."

Ariadne shakes her head, calls him cheesy and closes the gap between them.

"I pick you up right on time," he says.

"My, aren't we the gentleman?"

"And you're not ready," he adds, and she laughs, giving him that as she pulls him towards her with her arm along his back. "I have to wait for you to do a million more things, which is fine because we're just going to McDonald's…"

She feels his arm come around her shoulders in return. "What else do we do?" she asks, continuing their trudge through the grass. Further off she hears the strains of another swanky song get lost in the wind, the chatter of the party behind her. She shivers slightly as another breeze comes by, but also, maybe because Arthur is bending his head low, his nose almost touching her ear, his forehead slightly resting on her temple, whispering the answers in her ear.

* * *

Ariadne stood near the payphones in the Sydney airport, leaning against the silver metal box as she listened to her friend on the line. "You'll have to get me cereal," Rebecca said over the phone. "I need all versions of Captain Crunch."

Ariadne laughed, hugging the plastic receiver closer to her ear. "Yeah? Anything else oh-demanding-one?"

She could hear Rebecca chew over the question thoughtfully. "Do you think you can sneak Krispy Kreme here?"

Ariadne stifled her guffaw. "Rebecca, I didn't come back home just to fulfill a food order for you, you know," she said. "In fact, I didn't call to see if you needed anything. I just wanted to call you while I had down time in my layover."

"Oh, well it's always nice to be thought of," Rebecca trilled happily, segueing easily into campus gossip and lecture hall complaints, all of which Ariadne soaked in with appreciation, glorifying in her normal life, her normal friends, her normal schedule she would return to. It seemed ages away from now that she met Cobb after class. It seemed odd to think that that world would be the one she would return to.

She just didn't know how she would go back with all of this knowledge in her. Rebecca began hasty good-byes, apparently realizing the time, hanging up after Ariadne squeezed in her own farewells and promises.

Papers and exams awaited her after all of this. The stress of completing hypothetical's, the impatience on creating models or presenting ideas were there, none of this magical creation, none of this experimentation she came to know and grow intoxicated with. None of the immediate but more of the constraints she couldn't handle. The horizons in dream worlds were truly unobtainable, whereas one could always pinpoint the location in the real world.

She wondered whether Cobb felt that too when he started. Perhaps his reputation and vast experience as an extractor meant he saw the edges of the dream world, he saw the horizon and met it head on. He saw it and came back. She wondered what he saw there and if that explained what happened to Mal.

Ariadne pulled the receiver down, hanging up properly, when she turned to face the rest of the row of payphones, surprised to see Dominic Cobb standing at one staring at her.

She looked a question at him.

Suddenly the payphone near her jolted awake, a jarring sound near her ear but hardly jarring to the entire airport around them. She looked uneasily around her for a moment, before realizing Cobb's purposeful turn away from her, the relaxed sloop of his shoulders, and the black receiver nestled in the crook of his ear were big clues.

She picked her phone up, turning her back towards him as she spoke. "Hello?" The question on her lips dry.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

Ariadne schooled her features into calm, her stance into nonchalance. She sagged.

"Cobb, it's really unnecessary—"

"—look," he interrupted. "I'm not, entirely sure what will happen." She heard a harsh sigh escape him. She imagined him rubbing the space between his eyes as if clearing a headache. "I can't assure you that everything will be smooth." She heard the raw, disjuncture of these sentiments from his voice, the fluidity of the speech. A lack of thought went into this phone call, merely propelled by the desire to talk to her. "And I'm sorry for any trouble Mal may cause for the team or for you down there."

She couldn't call it reassuring, but perhaps—

"I wanted to thank you for coming," he said tersely. "You don't know the risk you put yourself doing this."

She knew what was coming—

"—but I'm giving you a way out. You don't have to go under with us."

Cobb stopped then, listening for her reply, probably already knowing it.

She exhaled loudly, looking her shoulder over at the extractor behind her. "I'm going, Cobb. I appreciate it, but I'm going." She held the black receiver tightly, the other hand holding the metal cable line connecting her to the wall, connecting her to her mentor five phone stalls away.

There was no response. No breathing. The dial tone startled her suddenly, and she turned around to see her entire row of payphones empty.

* * *

The hotel is empty by the time Ariadne leads him down the lit hallway, holding his hand.

In his hotel room, earlier that evening, he made his way out of the bathroom and turned to face the darkened room. "You do realize that I'm going to have to pay for this?" he asked, as he faced her lying on his bed. She looked up from where she sat on top of the made mattress, opened packs of snacks around her. Her entire back pressed against the headboard, her legs out in front of her, the wispy gray dress fanned out slightly. Nearby, his tuxedo jacket was laid nicely where he left it.

"You're the one who asked me out on date," she pointed out, popping a chocolate into her mouth, before offering him the pack. He made his way back to her and reclaimed his spot next to her in the same pose. His tie untied, his cuffs unbuttoned and rolled up. He left his shoes on the floor next to hers, which she kicked off.

"Fair point," he agreed, chewing and watching the television screen.

Coming from the reception, it was odd to walk into the hotel lobby, where a few guests sat on the couches, waiting, and the staff made their rounds and answered phones. Ariadne turned to him, her arm still secured around him as she looked up and asked more of their plans.

On the bed, she turned to him. "So what happens next?"

He reached for the bag of crisps on her lap and ate them. She agreed to come up to his room, wanting to take off her heels and wrestle whatever snacks he had left from the mini bar. "What's next what?" he asked, snacking.

"At the end of the date?" she reminded him. "What happens?"

"I take you home," Arthur went on, still munching. He took a few seconds before continuing, thinking. "I get out of the car and walk to the other side, opening it for you."

"Like a gentleman," she added.

"Because I am."

"I never doubted it."

At the end of her hallway, Ariadne brings them to a stop at her door, and they stand there. Their hands drop and idle at their sides.

"And you turn to face me, you smile. You reassure me of the amazing time you had," he went on.

Her face lit with the hallway lights, Ariadne looks at him and smiles. "I had a great time Arthur," she says with an exaggerated accent.

Arthur plays along. "Are we really going to do this?"

"—because you weren't there too?" Ariadne scoffed, shifting the bed and reaching for another bag nearby, guessing in the shadows of his bedroom. The television helped by giving a glow to help her out.

"You wrangle with your purse, shifting the contents, idling by the door as I stand and wait for you to safely get inside," he said, ignoring her.

In the hallway, Ariadne opens the small clutch she's been carrying all night, she reaches in for the small golden room key without much fuss. Under the lights, she can see the contents of her purse quite clearly.

"But we both know what you're doing," Arthur said, as Ariadne rolled her eyes and took another chocolate from her bag. "We both know that you're biding your time. You do the move."

She grimaced. "This is a first date Arthur. I don't do moves."

Arthur looked disbelieving. "The universal signal that you're angling for a kiss," he explained. "You find your keys eventually, but you don't immediately open your door."

"You're stealing this from a movie now aren't you?" she asked.

He ignored her and went on. "And you give me a look." He looked at her as if it were the most obvious thing. "Because we both know what you're doing."

Standing before her door, Ariadne clutches the single key ring and key in her hand and smiles at Arthur.

"This is from a movie, I know it," she said, munching the last snack on the mattress. The flickering television lights spotlight them.

"You jingle them."

Ariadne holds up her single key right at eye level, and Arthur rolls his eyes. "Really?"

She gives him a look that translates into the universal sign of being unable to help it, then her eyes widen with mock innocence. "I had a really great time Arthur," Ariadne says, jingling the keys again out in the open.

"People don't do this in real life Arthur," she said as she crumpled up her foil wrapper and tossed it to the nearby bin.

He leaned toward her, the blue and greens of the T.V. on his face. "We're not in a dream or drunk or pretending, but I lean in…"

Arthur leans down, rolling his eyes at this contrivance on her part, and she winds her arms around his neck, unable to hide that effervescent smile growing on her lips when he meets them. She can see everything.

On the bed, Arthur leaned forward, and Ariadne felt her heart stall. Half of his face in shadow. "I lean in," he said, his face near hers. "And you lean towards me," he said, her attention so aware of how close he was. "And I—" Arthur leaned forward, his face near hers as when he began whispering of their date.

"Eames says you lack imagination, but I really don't see it," she joked, cutting through.

Arthur reverted back. "And you ruin it by bringing up Eames."

Ariadne laughed, reaching for his cheek and bringing him a smidge closer to give him a peck. "I've had an amazing time Arthur," she said, and she relished the small, stunned moment as he sat still. When he turned to her, she bounded up off the mattress, searching the ground for her shoes. She flicked on a nearby lamp. "Now come on," she said, briskly. "Walk me to my room."

* * *

They wake up and get ready for the train back to Paris, arriving at La Gare du Nord on time for her next train. Bundled in jackets and in a slight sleepy sort of daze, they walk to some of the shops, buying pastries and coffee as they hold hands down through the crowd.

Time never meant much to Arthur, perhaps because of his dream life, where time can flex and move faster than normal, meaning on the inside, Arthur is probably a hundred-years-old or more. He feels it sometimes, despite his patience, he feels how slowly reality can be, and his careful calculation is unnecessary.

It's just that realization that he has other people that keep him occupied and happy. That life is more than just adrenaline and action, but the people he can slowly watch and listen to, be dependable for. He has his family, who he calls as often as possible, relating stories of his work in Paris and asking them about themselves, living vicariously through their stories and everyday work. He had Cobb, who needed his watch, despite whatever the extractor might have thought. He has Ariadne, who he can't let go of, even if he has said good-bye to her tons of times.

They had a few days, and getting Ariane's things packed up was easy.

With Arthur's help, they figured out what to sell and what needed to be stored, packing and sending what needs to be sent back home. It was a marathon of work, not having much time to do it, but it gets done.

Dolefully, he gathered up all the postcards first, walking around her apartment with unintended thunderous steps as he grabbed each and every one; some sun stained near the windows, others dusty from sitting on a shelf. He read his careless messages, wondering at her sentimentality over something so mundane, and he hated the waste of communication when he should have been saying more. He put them in a pile and pocketed them into his trench to be presented before she left.

She sucks in her lips when she sees them, her thumbs running along the top edges as she makes quick work of flipping here and there. She makes the pile neat and holds them between her hands like a prayer when she thanks him.

She invites him to see her new place, and he invites her to visit whenever she wants. It's a two-hour train ride, but they both understand that life gets in the way and that the promises are merely promises.

It's different, this leaving. She's seen him do it before and he's done it before, but this has a different ring to it. She points it out as a joke and he laughs it off, but they both feel it, this change in their pattern, which has been closely guarded, a way of life for both of them. She stays and he always comes back, never this way. It signals something alien to their encounters with both of them living separate lives in permanent residences. Almost like they couldn't justify themselves anymore.

They separate on a dreary Parisian morning, which, despite the drizzle, has a heartbreaking romanticism. Yes, even if they lived in Paris and have seen it all before. It's made special by her actual departure.

He studies her as she watches the departures board and find her gate. "Okay." She reaches up to hug him. Her hair and coat are cold against his cheek. "You snore in your sleep," she says into his shoulder. "You hate pomegranates, which is just weird. And we should probably break up," she exaggerates. "It's not me, it's you. I still want to be friends. Yada, yada, yada…"

He laughs at the joke and she hugs him again for good measure. "Au revoir," she whispers in his ear, her arms wound round him tighter than she intends, and he winds his arms around her and says the same.

He watches her until she passes the guard at the gate, who checks her passport and papers. She gives a flimsy wave before she disappears through a doorway to wait.

And Arthur stalks off into the ever-moving crowd of the train station. Hands in pockets, again, he thinks of the huge waste of communication and feels that everything said was simply not enough.

* * *

_**A/N:** As always, thank you for reading!_


	8. Chapter 8

Ariadne doesn't know what to do with herself when she gets to her new apartment, which feels empty despite the set-up furniture and unpacked boxes that greet her when she enters. Worse off, the unusual sunny day outside her window taunts her as she drops her backpack and duffle onto the floor. She holds the strap, sits, and looks to the window, thinking about what to do now.

She slept through the train ride and got through customs with the façade-like purposefulness, believing this responsibility, rather than feeling the full commitment she made. She sat in the black cab, slightly feeling ill and hollow as she tried to take mental notes of her surroundings

She tries unpacking, going out and buying a few necessities from the nearby Tesco, and eating premade soft salmon and cheese sandwiches and a packet of Walkers as she uses her keys to rip open boxes, a little half heartedly.

She wonders if she should call Arthur. She keeps an eye out on her phone, waiting for a call from him, certainly, but none come. And she's a little self-conscious to do it herself. There's no internet connection yet, so she pretends to read favorite passages from books, and sits on the floor of the empty bedroom, killing time. She calls her family from that position in front of the window, the dark orange sky playing onto her features as she hides her discomfort. She almost forgets it and lets herself appreciate the adventure.

She leaves again, if only to investigate her block and eat at a nearby pub. She doesn't bring a book with her, doesn't look at her phone. She just sits there, eating and watching DVDs off her laptop. She walks back and opens more boxes, a little more settled. She wishes she could call Rebecca, but she knows that her friend's already on her honeymoon. Ariadne's loathe to bother anyone else right now.

It's late that night, when it gets worst, and she's left in the apartment alone. She cuddles into sheets that are fresh and have never been slept in, and she feels it, an overwhelming emotion of regret in the form of "Holy crap what did I just do?" She consoles herself with her mobile, looking up her friends and reading well wishes sent her way, but even then, it makes her ache that much more for stability and comfort. She realizes after rereading each five times that it's actually made worst, and she stops, deciding that sleep would be the best coping mechanism anyway.

But it doesn't come as easily, and she struggles with her sheets, her pillow, and her hair. She just tied her hair into a messy plop of a bun on her head when her head plops onto the pillow, and she feels a hard square under her. She plunges her hand under the cushion, into the pillowcase, before reaching over to turn on her light. She reads the cover of the soft cover book clearly, her hand running over the small dog-eared corners, touching the yellowed pages.

It's how Ariadne, on her first night in London, stays up reading _Alice in Wonderland_ because, as Arthur's handwriting directs on the postcard slipped before the first page,

"_Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop."_

_You'll be fine. I know it. -A_

* * *

"It's nothing to worry about Yusuf," she said as calmly as she could muster. Though, she wore a pair of large noise-cancelling headphones. She used it as a rouse to not look too attached to the men around her.

They sat in the airport in Sydney, waiting for their next plane to California. A whole day of traveling, from waking up to catch an early flight out of Paris, then waiting in the Sydney airport had Ariadne weary, on edge, and almost giddy at the prospect of the actual job. She was never one for patience, and all the scheduling started to drive her nuts.

The group didn't allow themselves to be seen with one another. Eames lollygagged around the bar a few gates down, and she spied Arthur sitting by himself a few rows in front of her and Yusuf. Cobb and Saito stood by the windows watching the planes.

"Of course you can say that, you volunteered to go in," he muttered right back, looking at his watch. Though, she commended him for keeping his relative cool the flight from Paris. She herself couldn't stop her heart rate climb with anticipation, excitement at seeing her work finally in action, and mindful of what she will need to do for Cobb.

She did believe she was as necessary for the job, despite what Arthur might think. Eames and Saito supported her, the former most likely because he understood something amiss with Cobb, the latter because of her skill. Arthur, however, remained unconvinced of her part to the point where Eames pulled him aside as they waited for the their departure from Paris.

"You'll be fine," she said. "You know your level and you know the plan."

Yusuf gave a slight roll of his eyes and looked at her doubtfully. "You're not going to go into a 'if we all do our best, there's no way we're going to fail' speech are you?" He asked miserably.

Ariadne smiled and turned away to face the window.

"I'm going to need another drink," he announced, getting up with a rough heave and heading to the bar.

* * *

Ariadne takes a long sip from her china cup.

"Who would've thought that you would live here in my neck of the world, eh?" Eames asks, pouring cream into a small china cup of tea. The juxtaposition of Eames in this small tea shoppe, a polite affair with rose printed china and small sandwiches, is funny but fitting. Eames in a salmon colored button up, a loose fitting blazer and slacks, is very much at home with a teacup and scone in his hand, though, Ariadne figures, any Englishman should be.

"And us meeting was supposed to be earlier," she replies. "I didn't think that I would have to change countries before we saw one another Eames." Carefully, she uses a small pair of tongs to drop four sugar cubes into her tea as Eames looks out the large window front they're sitting near. The London street is drearily grey as usual but no rain—thank goodness—for now. Ariadne grew accustomed to carrying a small umbrella in her leather satchel, along with her Oyster card, London map, and a packet of top trumps they just gave away in the Underground.

"Yeah well, darling, work keeps me plenty busy," Eames excuses in the lackadaisical manner that she remembers.

She rolls her eyes and leans forward to pick up her cup. "Yeah I know it from Arthur," she says, almost hesitantly. That small bit of her retracts from his name, consciously aware that she's saying it aloud. She doesn't talk about him much—the people at work don't know him or pry about him—but he's always there, present in her thoughts. She wants to bring him up to people, hesitant that she brings him up too much, but, in actuality, isn't bringing him up at all. This is the first time she's ever said his name aloud in months.

"How is the old stick-in-the-mud?" The Englishman asks as he takes a sip from his own tea.

"A resident of Paris, actually," she replies, her tone willfully flippant.

Eames' face is pricelessly astounded and he places his cup back onto its saucer. "I heard the old boy settled down. What was he up to when you left?"

She shrugs. "Saito still wanted him to do some business recon work for him, on the right side of the law surprisingly."

"So he stays in Paris?" Eames asks incredulously. Ariadne has to bite down the smile at his expression, picking up one of the small sandwiches on the plate before her.

"Yes…"

He leans back in his chair blowing out a low whistle. He brings up his hands behind his head. "What did you do to him?"

"Me? What could I possibly have done?"

"For the longest time I've known Arthur, the longest he'll stay in a country by his own volition, is a week, tops. He's always working and if not that he's laying low for the next job. I think he doesn't know what to do otherwise."

She shakes her head knowingly. "He wants to settle. He doesn't know if he wants to turn into Cobb."

Eames watches her carefully. "Has he said that?"

"No, not really, but there's something about him that's so…" she peters off, thinking of the proper word, "carefully aware," she decides. "I can see that he wants out, but I don't think he trusts himself to leave."

The first step, she noticed when he decided to build roots was to accept a job from one of the men who knew him from his job as a dream conman, not really the best step in the right direction, especially since Saito wants to take him away too. And Arthur was falling back into that system yet again.

"I think you have a point," Eames says. "Arthur's too careful to do anything but work for someone else's benefit. That's why he's never left Cobb.

"I knew Cobb before Arthur," he continues, "so I knew him without him. He never had any direction other than where Cobb pointed, and as amazingly detail-oriented Arthur is, he's not much of a leader.

"You're right that he doesn't trust himself. He lacks imagination or confidence in that imagination to do anything different."

Ariadne interrupts, "but he did leave. He hasn't taken on any extraction jobs since."

"Yes. But I'm sure Arthur's treating it temporarily. He doesn't expect to grow roots." He sees her small quirk of the brow at that. "What?"

"Arthur said that before I left. Those words exactly."

She feels Eames eyes on her acutely and she consciously looks away as he speaks, "then I guess Paris won him over more than we thought."

"Yes, I guess so." Still, she catches the studious assessment Eames is making of her. "What? You don't think that Arthur and I—?"

"No. Who would think that?"

"You do realize that I moved here to England and that Arthur remains in Paris?" She shakes her head and mumbles, "It's as if people can't see that people of the opposite sex can't be friends."

"That's a lot of argument for a simple statement—"

"Oh shut up."

He holds a hand out to her. "But really Ariadne."

She drinks her tea. "Really Eames."

"I don't think I ever saw Arthur ever want to settle down before." He steeples his fingers against his nose. "I think he found just his push."

* * *

They've just been through hell with the rain, the freight train, the machine gun wielding projections.

And Cobb was yelling as Saito laid on the ground, Arthur over him. "Let me ask you a question, why the hell were we ambushed?" Cobb demanded, pacing, twitching. "Those were not normal projections. They've been trained for God's sake."

"How can they be trained?" Ariadne asked, shivering from the rain.

And Arthur was calm, despite Cobb, because that's what he did. He chose to address her question before going on to Cobb's frantic one. Ariadne regretted posing it as it seemed to egg Cobb further. "Fischer had an extractor teach his subconscious to defend itself, so his subconscious is militarized." He looked up at Cobb, his voice calculatingly calm. "It should've shown in the research, I'm sorry."

"So why the hell didn't it?" Cobb spat back.

Arthur looked taken aback. "Calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down," Cobb snapped. "This was your job godaammit. This was your responsibility!"

Ariadne saw Arthur hardly flinch as he stood up.

* * *

Arthur returns to his apartment, he opens the door slowly and assesses the inside before hanging his coat on the hook nearby, placing his suitcase near the door.

He starts a kettle.

He looks out his window.

He goes to lie on the couch, travel weary and exhausted.

Then he closes his eyes, hoping to fall asleep, before realizing that he's forgotten how to dream.

* * *

Ariadne sends Arthur an e-mail, thanking him for the book, which she reads every night as her apartment slowly grows into a home with books splayed here, pens and papers left on her coffee table, and Internet available. The amount of unpacked boxes diminishes into a pile of folded cardboard by the door and there are perishable items in her fridge.

The weather changes too, the cool spring giving into a warm summer. There are more tourists in certain areas and she learns to navigate the Tube herself, her headphones in as she holds onto the leather strap above her.

The letters are sparse, sometimes weeks go by without any contact, though there are attempted phone calls. She makes them huddled outside of pubs as the weather slowly gives way to a cooler summer, where evenings are short and jackets become required. But sometimes the weather eggs her to end it quickly, and after a few forced beginnings of conversation, she ends it to head inside.

Their correspondence seems trapped in the past, the way it's spread out, they're still talking about her housing, despite it being five months lived in. Arthur replies courteously, bluntly, in fewer words and less feeling than she wants, sending well wishes on her living situation and giving some tips on food or places to see.

She takes these as a sign for an end to conversation, and she feels self-conscious and forced as she tried to strike up a discussion on sandwich choices.

Slowly, the electronic correspondence feels hollow, like they're both talking about weather and smiling at one another, so Ariadne doesn't write back or he doesn't. She doesn't bother to see who stopped first, but the entire episode is moot. The correspondence itself gets buried amidst her work e-mails, news from Rebecca, and notifications, until inevitably, she'd have to really search for it if she wanted to see it again.

* * *

Arthur rereads some of the newspaper clippings he found for Saito before rifling through some of his own research he's compiled.

It's a desk job. A settlement.

This lacks any sort of thrill or puzzle or instinct. He's huddled over his laptop most of the day, relieved when he can take a break or walk the sidewalk to the café just for a reprieve. He told Saito that he wouldn't want to leave Paris just yet, and Saito, for some reason, keeps the position open to Arthur, despite Arthur's insistence that the man find someone else to do it. Instead, it's left there on the table, like shiny temptation.

He enjoyed it at first. He liked the idea of staying in one place, researching a plot similar to how he did it back when he started out, but his fingers start to itch for something more. He questions why he came here in the first place.

He still enjoys the domesticity. He likes having a familiar home to come to. He likes having people know who he is, like Etienne down at the café or Nicole at the bookstore. He likes being where he is, and while money may very well not be an issue, Arthur knows that he needs something more than just retirement to settle down. It's how he's programmed, how he always wanted to live his life.

He skims through Ariadne's e-mails, which are a little out of date because of the last quick conversation they had. She talks about her job, her neighborhood, the food, but underneath all of it, he can tell that she's genuinely happy. He can see how she enjoys her work by the restraint she displays in talking about it, that careful humility about her coworkers and her ideas. Her restraint does the dual purpose of showing her concern for him. As if to confirm these suspicions, she cuts it off short too, signing off and asking for information about him.

How is he?

He sits back, his computer chair creaking beneath him, considering the question and considering the reply.

Mindlessly, he reaches forward and swiftly replies how great he is.

* * *

Ariadne looked over at Arthur, who held the black ski mask Cobb just tossed at him. Eames, sitting nearby, met her eyes briefly, before looking back at the point man.

"He's militarized," Eames said with a careless sigh, almost a bittersweet laugh. "How the hell, does someone like you miss something like this?" It was a hollow joke that Eames clearly doesn't require a reply, and Arthur stood there, holding the black ski mask, and for a moment, Arthur looked at Ariadne standing there, almost reluctant to address the thief.

Ariadne bowed her head, ready to step away, when Saito groaned behind her, and she turned to look at him, to look at the bleeding, and maintain pressure again.

Behind her she could hear Eames disappointedly speaking to Arthur, almost as if he already gave up on this endeavor. "This was your responsibility, mate," the Englishman said. "This is what you do. And you usually do it well."

"I know. I know—"

"It's basic, and you fucked us, almost as bad as your friend," Eames went on. Ariadne could feel the anger coming from the forger, and she winced at his callousness. She heard the chair Eames sat in creak and strain as he moved. "How could you miss something like that in the research?" he asked, exasperated, a small crack of his control showing. "You never miss anything like that." And Eames didn't say anything else, but he stopped himself, and Ariadne turned around feeling his eyes on her. When she leveled a look at him, Eames paused a moment before he turned away. The chair rubbed against the wood floor, as Eames patted his knees. "Never mind. I'm not worried," he announced, standing. He turned to Arthur before her, then followed Cobb's steps out, "but you better get your head out of your arse if we're going to do this."

Arthur didn't move. "Of course."

Eames looked at Ariadne, then Arthur. "I'm serious Arthur." Arthur acknowledged her briefly, before turning towards the Englishman, that same studiously hardened expression on his face.

"I got it Mr. Eames." Then more dismissively with that damn arched brow, "Anything else?" She heard the restraint in Arthur's voice.

"Yes," he said, stopping. "We have to look out for each other. Who knows what other wrench we'll have thrown at us." And with the last significant look at Ariadne, he left.

* * *

Arthur listens to the voicemail left on his mobile as he makes his way along the sidewalk. Her voice sounds almost like she's busy, almost as if she doesn't have time for this call, but she makes it anyway.

"Anyway," she starts to finish up, "give me a call. I'll be at the drafting table late tonight. I could use the company."

Arthur consults his watch before deleting the voicemail. He considers dialing but then rejects the notion.

He's proud, he'll admit. He's a little too proud to listen to her happiness right now, a little too indifferent and a little too thoughtful to sound encouraging or interested. He promises himself that he'll call her later.

He tells himself that he will.

* * *

Ariadne sighs when she looks at her phone.

It's odd how quickly they lose contact of one another.

Maybe not fully. There is the occasional message. The randomly quick phone call, where Ariadne attempts to find new threads of conversation, only to end with painful pauses.

It's odd how quickly they accept it, these silences. Odd how quickly he or she lets it go and accepts the hollow excuses almost thankfully.

Soon, the attempts even stop. Their conversation dwindles to text messages and, worst, relies on those hollow e-mails. But that too was disregarded early on. They were never good at e-mails. Even when Arthur was the one traveling, they agreed that e-mails weren't safe, and the disuse of it made them crap at writing them. Soon, talking to one another requires an excuse, a purpose, a thesis, when before, she could call him and just see where it went. There's hardly anything now.

Ariadne knows that Arthur is nothing if not purposeful, and simply forgetting to keep contact with her isn't just a lapse of memory. He's the one who didn't want to try if they were going to be this far away from one another. She suggested it first and he shot it down.

At her hotel room door after the wedding, she held onto his shoulders as she kissed him. His hands roved across her hips, up her waist, to her elbows, and she felt that slight jolt of electricity at first, before she backed away first, reluctantly.

"Um."

Arthur had a bashful look about him as he looked down on her, his hands settled on her waist, and Ariadne attempted talking again.

Then he seemed to remember himself and he pulled his hands away. "We shouldn't."

Ariadne forced a smile on her face. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm sorry. I'm just—" She stopped herself. "Just tonight. Right?"

She knew Arthur picked up on it immediately. "I don't think it would be the best idea for us," Arthur admitted. "It wouldn't work out with how everything is."

"Right."

She sensed his hesitation as he closed the gap between them, pulling her close for a moment to kiss her again, only sweetly this time, lightly, thoughtfully. Ariadne closed her eyes.

"I'll come by to help you with your things in the morning," he said, stepping back, and she agreed, smiling back a small sense of disappointment she wasn't ready to acknowledge.

"Good night Arthur."

"Good night Ariadne."

She sits at a Pret a Manger with a toasty on her plate and a hot chocolate when she decides to give it another shot. Her thumb on the green send button, she looks at his number and ultimately presses it.

It just rings and rings and rings.

* * *

They stood in the abandoned warehouse on the first dream level away from the others, Eames having just left, and Saito lying on the wooden counter by the window. Arthur looked up at her, his hand fisted around the black ski mask Cobb had just tossed at him.

Arthur felt the tension in his hands as he fisted them at his sides, squeezing the material. At a slight movement from her, he looked up suddenly, schooling the scowl on his face into some semblance of calm. She looked at him warily, taking a step away from Saito's prone body.

"Why is it so bad to end up in Limbo? Don't you just wake up?" Ariadne asked after a pause.

Arthur looked at her, still slightly wet from the rain outside. Her coat clung to her small frame and her hair beginning to dry. She looked smaller than she ever did, smaller than when he first laid eyes on her in Paris. "You can lose yourself in Limbo. It's easier to accept the dream as reality," he replied, studying her.

"How do you know that?" Unintentionally, her voice trembled with the prospect, and Arthur wanted to punch Cobb in the face for his selfishness in bringing her here. He cursed himself for allowing it in the first place.

He looked a few yards over at Cobb and Eames discussing something furiously yet quietly. "Cobb told me. It's pretty much the only thing he did tell me about the place," he added.

"I don't like this," she admitted, rubbing her arm for heat.

"Yeah," Arthur agreed. He took a step towards her and made a grab for her elbows but decided against it. He held them up as if he intended too anyway. "Just stay near me in the next level. Cobb's an idiot for bringing us in here, but deeper is the only way to do this. It's our only shot."

Ariadne turned to look at Cobb and Eames, still too caught up to notice them noticing. "It's worth it, at least," she said quietly, looking at the lead extractor sympathetically. Arthur dropped his hands from her as he followed her gaze.

He wanted to hit his partner again.

* * *

The closest Arthur has to moping is his increased frequency to bars in the evening, and even then, he rarely drinks into a stupor. He refrains from lingering eye contact to the women nearby, though he can tell that they hanker for it, and he only has eyes ahead of him, thinking.

The closest Arthur has to moping over inaction are these barstool retreats, where he's more mental and his presence is only physical.

He still has contacts in extraction. Going back in wouldn't be difficult at all, and even Saito's mentioned it in hardly hints more than once. He can do that, but no. He's begun to cherish his domesticity, he's gotten too used to wanting a real life outside of the chase. He's good out, leaving him with what, exactly?

Conning was right there when he left college, and while Saito could provide the proper connections if he ever wanted to join the legal end of the business world, Arthur's not even sure if he would be cut out for that anyway.

He's jealous of Ariadne's passion, that desire, that confidence in understanding what she wants to do in life. That's what made her able to find herself, that's what he lacks.

He feels simultaneous resentment and gratitude for her influence: resenting her purposefulness, gracious at the home she helped bring about.

Money's no object, he reminds himself, but when returning to the real world after years of pretending to not exist, there's hardly any significant, known contribution he can boast of.

He's on the phone with Saito back at his apartment as he paces in front of his windows. His mind loose with alcohol, but his intentions sharpened to convince himself that he did not, in fact, have one drink too many. "Of course I would Saito, but I don't think I can—" The businessman cuts him off again, and Arthur nods along patiently as he paces in front of his window, his mobile at his ear. "Of course. Of course. I know Saito."

It's odd how close they've become since the Fischer job. Fischer, who is successfully building a smaller company on his own, is hardly a threat, but Browning, who bought as much of the company as possible tries his best to be.

Some of Arthur's recon work for him included more research on Browning, who was looking towards European branches to widen his corporate reach. Part of the moving which Saito asked him to do included following Browning. So far, he's been able to keep Saito from pressuring him, but Saito wants someone he can trust on Browning. He wants someone like Arthur there.

Since Ariadne left, Arthur's considered it strongly. That pure promise of moving, of being able to convince one's self that this was actual life, that he could fool himself into thinking that he was feeling fulfillment was tempting, but he knew he shouldn't. Liz and Sam promised to come over during Sam's school break, and Arthur knew that he had to stay put for that. Also, Arthur had other plans in mind in the mean time.

"You're full of reassurances Arthur," Saito replies, "but I'm not seeing anything reassuring. You're sometimes as bad as Dominic Cobb."

"In order for this to work Saito, you'll have to trust me," Arthur replies smoothly, and Saito's laugh cuts through the phone line.

"Exactly as he would've said it," he said. "So when can you have everything ready for me?"

Arthur stops, a sudden thought coming to his head. It's impetuous and headless and purely, purely un-Arthurlike.

"A few weeks," he decides, feeling impressed with himself. "I'm thinking about visiting an old friend," Arthur says, cutting into Saito's diatribe of honor and accountability. "It's about time I do that."

* * *

Ariadne sits with Sybil, her partner, and their client, taking notes, and listening as he addresses the client's concerns while also navigating around sticky issues that would consultation with the rest of the team later.

She takes notes, replies in kind, and makes suggestions to ensure the client's satisfaction. Sybil smiles encouragingly, and she takes it all as a good sign.

When she leaves the meeting room, Ariadne decides to take a walk outside, unable to hide the smile on her face. She slides out her phone from her coat pocket and scrolls through her contacts to find someone to tell. She shivers as she walks, from excitement and from the general cool weather settling in.

"Hello?"

"It went really well," she can't help but gush.

"Ariadne that's amazing! What happened?"

"Are you busy? I only have a few minutes, but I needed to tell someone. Wow. I'm sorry. It feels like I haven't spoken to you in a while. How are you?"

"Good. Good. Everything's fine. I'm sorry I haven't called. I kept telling myself to call you back, but you know how it is. Oh. Louis says hello."

"Me too," Ariadne says, genuinely, holding the phone close to her cheek, grasping onto this small comfort all the way over in the city she loves.

* * *

He feels he hadn't spoken to Ariadne properly for months. She left at the beginning of Spring and now the cold air has started to takeover Paris.

There were the few e-mails, of course. Those small tidbits of conversation where she thanked him for the book he stowed in her pillow case, and he replied in kind. The conversation's stifled, despite effort on her part to keep it going, until finally, mostly due to his purposeful restraint, she eventually stopped writing back.

He acknowledges that it's guilt keeping him from her. Geography, guilt, practicality. There's a list. He could have left for London too, but there's that realization that he needs to figure his way out himself, not follow her.

It's why Arthur finds himself in a rental car, maneuvering the familiar roads to the house he knew so well, and parking outside, the family already seeming to be ready for him.

He allows Cobb to envelope him in a bear hug as the extractor intercepts him on his way up the drive.

Pippa and James are right behind their father, calling Arthur's name in excited voices, following. They're very grown up now, mini adults almost, as Pippa rushes to hug him after, and James squeezes in too. They remember him from childhood, but five years of separation makes them slightly wary and curious as to his surprising return. Pippa asks him where he came from. James asks how long he'll be here.

"It's been a long time," Dom says as he leads his friend into the house, the kids in their wake. He takes one of Arthur's bags from him.

"That's my fault," Arthur amends, putting his small messenger onto the counter. "I'm sorry I lost track of you." James and Pippa rush into the kitchen, throwing questions as they speak, and Dom tactfully replies and deflects, reminding Pippa of homework and James of practice. The two leave in a huff, extracting a promise from Arthur to answer all of their questions later.

Dom smiles, watching his kids head upstairs or to the backyard, before pushing himself off the counter. "Right. You're probably jet-lagged. Do you want to get some sleep in before dinner?"

Arthur watches his best friend start to rifle through the kitchen, breaking out pots and pans, collecting ingredients from the fridge. It's oddly domestic and out of place for a man he's seen kill ruthlessly before, but he can read from the movements that what Dominic Cobb needs right now is mundane domesticity. It suits him. "Where did you come from? The last time I heard from you, you were in Venezuela? Or maybe it was Mexico?"

He realizes that his friend looks at him for a response, and he snaps to attention. "Oh. No, actually. I just came in from Paris." Dom raises his eyebrows.

"Paris?" He asks. "I never heard—"

"I never saw Miles. No. I have a place there. Been there for the past year or so."

"A year. In Paris?" Dom asks, his eyes searching.

Arthur feels surprised at how quickly this all to a head. "Yes."

But of course, his friend is quick to the point. "Were you there to see—?"

"I should probably take a small nap before dinner," Arthur says, casually but quickly. "The munchkins will need me in top form if I'm playing pack horse again."

He sees Cobb reel in his attack and shake his head. "They're far too old for that now Arthur," he replies, amused.

Arthur looks wistfully out towards the house, realizing that there's a considerable lack of toys around than there used to be. "They are, aren't they?"

Cobb laughs and places a pot onto the counter. "Yeah. You've been gone for a while." He lets that comment sink in properly before adding briskly, "I'll send Marie or Pippa to wake you later."

* * *

Wedged in a box under a tumbled group of scarves, she discovers the post cards in surprise.

She woke up that morning, rifling through the remaining boxes and her few unopened bags left in their living room for weeks turned months, warm Summer turned cool Fall, and found it near her carry-on bag from the train. She didn't want to read them all at once on the train ride, and she carefully wrapped them in one of her scarves into the depths of her luggage for later. Because of the move, she must have forgotten all about them, and Ariadne starts to rifle through them quickly.

She settles onto her couch, the bright, late afternoon sun, annoyingly cloying past her blinds as she reads the first one, then the next, then the next. There's nothing in them. Just description. But she remembers when she first read each, where she stood or how she felt at just seeing it in her mailbox. That desperation, that anticipation wrapped together in her as she read through the three or so lines that were so typical tight-lipped Arthur.

They remind her of a time when Arthur was the one missing for her, how he still attempted contact with her, how despite the geography, he did, when now, now they had two hours separating them. They didn't have his moving to excuse his ignorance or her instability and relationships to make her refrain or question.

After she reads one, she sets it out on her coffee table until the wood's hidden underneath. The entire top is covered with the things, and she considers them, sitting back. An idea strikes her over this inside joke.

The darker promises of evening and rain envelope her as she walks out of a small shop, a post card and stamps in her gloved hand. She makes quick work of writing right outside, bearing down on her own notebook as she writes about the scenery, about her apartment. She's out of room quickly, and she wedges her name into the remaining space, with much love.

* * *

They woke up sitting next to one another on a set of couches, and Arthur, ever aware, barely turned to take note of the hotel she so carefully constructed for them.

She sat nearby, her subconscious clearly listening to his orders from the night before. She wore her hair in a bun and no scarf, and Arthur looked at her intently, his lips curling in amusement.

"What?" She asked, covering her neck self-consciously.

"You don't look like yourself," he admitted, raking his eyes over her bare legs to her top bun. She pulled at the hem of her skirt.

"You wear suits all the time," she pointed out. "I look professional."

"Yes, true, but you also look uncomfortable."

"All part of the job," she said, looking around. "I was trying to match the dream."

"You're neck…"

"What?" Her eyes snapped to his, taking him back for a moment.

He shrugged. "You're not wearing a scarf," he said smoothly. He didn't understand why he said it either.

* * *

It takes Arthur a longer time to feel sleepily inclined, jet lag and their talk preventing him. He stays up taking apart each of Cobb's words carefully, dwelling on his own reaction and trying to understand it all himself.

He sits up on the guest bed and pulls out the small postcard he received before he left for the States. The Clock Tower stands against an inky purple sky, the lights orange and yellow illuminated near the Thames. The gesture is almost a small joke between them, and he catches the way she writes of nothing of herself but the scenery, like he used to with her. What a waste of opportunities, he thinks. What a waste of paper and the romantic notion of letter writing. He could've said ten million more things than he wanted to with those cards, and instead he chose to bore her with sights and tourism.

He knows for certain, how he feels about her. He knew it when his heart dropped when she told him about her move. Hell, he knew it when he moved to Paris, knew it when they first dreamed together, but like it or not, he knows what's best.

* * *

Under pelting, cold rain, Ariadne rushes from one store front cover to the next, holding up an edition of the London Times to shield her as much as soggy newspaper can. Her portfolio slaps against her thigh as she rushes from one store to the next. She's grateful she splurged on a leather cover so maybe to have minimal damage to her work inside. The strap, however, strangles across her breast, and she breathes heavily as a particularly large drop smacks her on her face. The newspaper is really a hopeless endeavor, and by the time she makes it to the coffee shop, she's soaked through her black suit. Thankfully, she wore a blue button up rather than white that day, and her tweed burgundy coat is somewhat warm, if heavier because of the torrential rain.

When she finds the woman she needs to meet, she decides to play confidence, a feeling she lacks at the moment with her low bun threatening to fall out and wisps of hair stuck to her face. She attempts to make herself presentable, pulling the portfolio strap off of her and swiping away her wet hair from her face, and she marches to the woman's table and greets her.

"Oh." She sounds surprised, but she doesn't look disapproving at Ariadne as she takes in the drenched wardrobe. Ariadne takes this to be a good sign.

"I didn't start like this," Ariadne admits, shaking the woman's hand and taking a seat. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now."

The woman nods. "That's right. You studied under Stephen Miles in Paris," she says with her brisk American accent. She nods approvingly. "And Denis had many good things to say about you," she adds. "He thinks you're a great candidate for this transfer."

And as Ariadne settles in and the waiter brings her tea, she feels a shift in her prospect. She inhales and exhales, smiling tepidly as her interview begins.

* * *

Cobb places a cold bottle of beer on the wooden table before him, and Arthur thanks him as the former extractor takes the seat right next to him on the back patio. The air around them cool and crisp, and despite it being November, Arthur remembers summers in this house with Mal and Miles. He remembers the first time he set foot in this backyard, with this view and deemed it the best house he's ever been in.

Mal and Dom chose the location for the view and with the intention of having a place for their children, further into the woods, Dom talked about a playhouse he started building with Pippa, and James enjoys the small open field that is their backyard, spreading his arms out like he's a helicopter. The house itself is cozy with its deep woods and large windows, allowing tons of natural light inside. Dom and Mal went over every inch of this house, making each marker perfect, playing with the image of it in dreams. It's almost ethereal standing in it right now.

"So are we going to talk about the elephant in the room or should we just pretend that it's not there?" Cobb asks, settling back in his lawn chair with his beer between both hands. In the distance, the sun starts to set a fiery orange over the entire lawn and Arthur looks in that direction rather than at his friend.

"I'm fine in leaving it sitting there," Arthur replies. "It's not bothering anyone."

Cobb laughs, taking a swig before asking directly, "Were you in Paris to be closer to Ariadne?" he asks, ignoring that comment.

Arthur pauses slightly. "Yes."

That line of questioning, though oddly frank for both of them, is like a band-aid reveal of information. Cobb's face breaks into a large smile and he place his bottle back onto the table. "I suspected when we were on the job, but I didn't really think anything of it." He groans as he settles back into his chair. "When she sent me a postcard to give to you, I started to see it. Eames said that you guys kept in touch."

"Ahh," Arthur replies with a nod, leaning his elbows on his knees. His beer bottle hands between his fingers as he speaks, "We've become the gossip of thieves."

"Don't get a big head, we talked about other things too," Dom interjects, "but it's funny."

"It doesn't seem funny," Arthur responds a little sulkily.

"Yes it is. You fell in love with a girl you shared dreams with in Paris, of all places. You couldn't have been more romantic if you tried."

Arthur doesn't say anything but calls bullshit with the look he gives him.

"Mal and I met before Paris," Dom explains, "so we didn't really fall into that cliché."

"Cliché. Thanks."

Cobb studies him for a moment. "You're not going to end up like me and Mal."

Arthur looks at him, surprised. "I never—I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. But I don't want you to think that just because we both understood shared dreaming, like you guys, it doesn't mean that you two will end up the same. Because it does pull you in and it makes you wonder, but more importantly, you two knew when to bow out." He lounges again, drinking his beer slowly, the amber bottle sweating in his hands. "She called me a few months ago to tell me that she was moving to London. She wanted to thank me for taking her away from it before it became a problem. She said that she really wants to try to make it a different way."

"She wants to build something in the real world," Arthur adds.

"That's good. I can't say that much for myself—" Though Arthur wants to interject about this house, Dom beats him before he can say anything. "Are you ready to?" He asks. "You've been doing it much longer than her. It may be more difficult."

"To stop living in a videogame?"

Cobb laughs. "I never thought of it that way, but, essentially, yes."

Arthur sits back, like his friend, settling in as he thinks. Saito has been happy with his work so far, investigating businessmen, investigating prospects as well. And while some of it may not be on the oh-so legal side, there's a lack of life and death action, adrenaline hype, that Arthur isn't sure he can say good-bye to yet. Where's the intrigue that pulls you in?

"I like the puzzle," Arthur explains. "I like reading and studying someone's mind, but it's not how I want to live the rest of my life."

"Yeah," Cobb agrees. "It took me a mistake too many to realize that."

* * *

"And there goes Mr. Charles," Arthur commented for Ariadne's benefit, watching Cobb make his way across the hotel lobby. He took wide strides, confident in this plan, unaware of how reluctant or how angry everyone was at him, but that wasn't what the team needed right now. What they needed was security and trust in one another, and while Arthur disliked running with Mr. Charles, Cobb's authority seemed to outweigh any of the possible results. Everything was so hashed together at this point.

"Who or what, exactly is Mr. Charles?" Ariadne asked, watching as well.

Arthur did his best to bite down the rising anger in his throat. "It's a gambit designed to turn Fischer against his own subconscious," he explained. He allowed the explanation as a form of catharsis. It was talking. He liked talking to Ariadne. She had this calming presence on him.

"And why don't you approve?" she asked. Arthur had to curl his hand in his lap at the reminder of Cobb's general disregard for the others on this team, because Arthur's opinion meant nothing anyway.

Cobb sat at Arthur's desk in the workshop, picking at a pain au chocolat for ten minutes before Arthur looked at him, asking if his friend needed any help. "She's off limits."

Arthur peered at him across the worktable, old newspapers on the Fischer family open to him. "I didn't realize that I needed your permission."

"It's my fault," Cobb said. "I left you two together too much."

"There's nothing going on," Arthur insisted.

Arthur schooled his features properly as Cobb leaned forward, focusing his steely blue eyes onto the point man. He sat back and went back to picking at his pastry.

"And even if there were," Arthur went on. "I don't think it's your place to say anything to me. You of all people."

"Me?"

"You're the idealist, Cobb. You're the dreamer, remember?" Arthur started to gather up the clippings back into an accordion folder nearby. "It's why you can't let go of Mal, and why you think this whole scheme will work, so excuse me if I don't really understand why you're trying to give me relationship advice on a _coworker_."

"That's exactly why. We're a team. Do you think it works better if there's an imbalance on the team? She doesn't belong with us Arthur."

"So why get her on board in the first place?" Cobb's eyes dropped to the table and Arthur almost smirked but anger and annoyance kept him from doing so. "You're selfish for introducing her into this world if you mean to take it all away."

"Do you think she should stay?" It was Arthur's turn to feel the chagrin. He continued to gather papers. "It's this one job Arthur. She won't be here long. I promised Miles."

Arthur didn't say anything else when Cobb picked up his pastry and got up. He also didn't bring it up again when he was with the extractor later on, because the man had a point. Ariadne didn't belong in this world. She already understood too much, and he could see how easily the ability to purely create a world began to intoxicate her.

Sitting on the couches, she asked, "And why don't you approve?"

Arthur turned to her. "Because it involves telling the mark that he's dreaming. Which involves attracting a lot of attention to us."

"Didn't Cobb say never to do that?" she asked, watching the leggy blonde Eames turned into cross the lobby away from the bar.

"Ah," Arthur said, taking a good long look at her, staring at her bare neck, her chin, her ear. She sat right next to him, talking to him as if they weren't on a mission right now. Cobb, damn him, was right. "So, you've noticed how much time Cobb spends doing things he says never to do," he said, his eyes lingering on her, her back, her entire body, as she faces the other way.

* * *

It's around three in the morning and Arthur sits in the kitchen, the low hanging light above the table the only bulb on as he types. Jet lag and planning took over his mind since he spoke to Dom, and captured with an all-consuming idea, he gives into the wakeness of his mind, rather than fighting a sleepless night tossing in his sheets. His fingers take a moment to find their rhythm and he has to stop to really consider what he's saying, deleting lines and sometimes paragraphs. His eyes skim over lines and he whispers lines to himself, testing out the weight and pacing of the words. He crouches forward, squinting his eyes at the screen, concentrating, when he hears a scuffle behind him. He reacts quickly, turning around without a flinch, eyes immediately tuned in as he settles on a stunned Philippa.

They both stare at one another for a stunned moment, before Arthur relaxes, because while some habits don't die, it feels rusty from disuse, and his heart takes a moment to settle back down.

"Pippa, what are you doing up?" he asks calmly, giving her a smile to reassure her.

The sleepy twelve-year-old takes a few tentative steps towards him and into the lit circle of the kitchen table, before speaking, "I was thirsty." Arthur immediately stands to get her a glass, and Philippa primly takes a seat next to his vacated one. He brings her a glass and pulls up back into his chair.

"What are you doing up Uncle Arthur?" she asks, taking a sip.

Arthur's eyes flicker towards his screen then at her. He heaves a deep sigh. "Something I haven't done in a while," he explains. "Writing."

Philippa nods and takes another sip. "What are you writing?"

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" he counters back lightly.

"I was thirsty," she insists. "What are you writing?"

Arthur sits back to take a look at it. "A letter."

She nods along. "Must be important."

"Why do you say that?" he asks to humor her.

She fiddles with the woven placemat before her. "Nothing, but daddy's been worried about you." She stops short and looks at him. "He wonders about you sometimes."

"Does he?"

"He wonders what you're up to. He doesn't say much but he says that you work in the same job he used to."

"That's true." He can see the curiosity in her eyes, but he doesn't divulge anything.

"Daddy says that it's pretty dangerous."

"That's true too."

"Is the letter about it?"

Arthur's unsure of what to tell her, but he decides to broach it with a broader tactic. "You're really inquisitive."

She preens at the comment. "Daddy says mommy was the same," she replies a little proudly.

"She was, yes."

"So the letter?"

Arthur sighs and looks at the screen again, picking out words he'll need to edit out later. "It's about my job now. I do want to try something new."

"Do you think you'll like it?"

"We'll have to see what happens."

Philippa's tone changes slightly when she frowns and replies with a bereft shoulder sag. "Daddy doesn't believe in that."

"What?"

"He says that you have to make your own luck."

Arthur's heard that from Dom before, rarely, but he's heard it. It certainly explains all of the risk he's done over the years he's known him, and also the risks Dom was willing to undergo just to get back here. "Yeah, well you're daddy was lucky to get out when he did."

"Why?"

Arthur reaches over to close his laptop, and it snaps shut as their eyes meet. "Because he had you guys."

* * *

Ariadne realizes that she broke her tradition of meeting a city's center, so she heads to Charring Cross, holding the strap of her cross body as she makes her way towards the looming statue. Internally, she debates whether she should actually close her eyes and stand there, with it being London she's not so sure that she should leave herself susceptible to questioning and odd looks, but it's tradition and Rebecca did ask if she did. And Ariadne couldn't let her friend down, despite having been here for a while already. And it's not as if she should get used to this.

She wonders at the difference of this. She's made friends at the firm, hanging out for happy hour and working together over projects tend to do that, and she forgets herself. She forgets that she should be missing Paris and it's calm. The smell from the bakery near her apartment. The faded light on the sunniest of days. Arthur.

She taught herself to stop thinking about him. Her best friend or not, her heart feels broken over the loss of contact, worst too because she knows that Arthur's capable of it. Those years of moving around and somehow, he always came back to her, and now this.

Ariadne put on a brave face when Rebecca asked, refusing to talk about it or even think about with herself, but it was just those nights, sometimes, when she would miss him, wish that she could tell him about her day like she used to, or even worst, imagine. Ariadne wasn't used to sentimentality concerning Arthur, and she sometimes cruelly will play the what-if game.

The what-if she stayed with him in Paris. What-if she realized it sooner. She hates that game and berates herself later for even indulging in it, because this is what she wanted all along.

Ariadne reaches her destination, looking through the rushing crowd for a way in to weave, when she realizes that she sees:

"Tom?" She wishes the word back into her mouth, uncertain if she should've pretended not to see him.

His face lights up with recognition as he turns to see her. "Ariadne?"

They assess each other warily, until Ariadne comes forward. The same scruffy hair, the same expression, same Tom. She should've expected to run into him eventually. London didn't feel that big. "It's really weird to see you," she opens up.

Tom laughs at that. "You too."

They peter out, and Ariadne looks up suddenly, "Just to get it out of the way, I'm not following you."

"And here I was, getting my hopes up."

"No. No, I actually live here."

Tom's expression swiftly moves through disbelief, confusion, hurt, before settling on general amusement. "Really? How long?"

"About six, seven months?" she asks herself, looking up to calculate. "I got a job at a firm here."

"That's great."

They fade off again, and Ariadne jumps in, "I should probably apologize for—"

He cuts her off. "It's fine."

"No really. I'm sorry about," she struggles, "well about everything. I realize how selfish I was being and how that affected you. I just. I'm just really sorry."

"It's fine. It really is." He seems to realize where they're standing and looks at the large stone cross behind him. "You're not just coming here are you?"

Ariadne blanks her face. "What do you mean?"

"Your tradition. You're visiting the city's center, aren't you?"

"I can't believe you remember that."

"Of course I do. Who would forget their first steps in Paris? Okay technically, their five-hundredth probably, but it really didn't seem to matter until then."

"That's very sweet of you to say."

"I am capable of it, you know," he replies. The conversation's light, shallow, jocular, but teasing. She can float along this ebb and flow of niceties, some would say flirtation. She's comfortable in not giving anything away, and part of her can revel in the comfort of having someone to listen, even if it is just talking in quips.

"Yeah, well—" she jokes.

"We should get coffee sometime." The invitation takes her by surprise.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's not weird. I promise you," he reassures her.

And a part of her wants that familiarity that invitation in a big city where she's already gotten so used to work. "Yeah. Yeah, coffee sounds great."

* * *

Arthur's stay with the Cobbs turns from a two-week stay to "stay until Thanksgiving." That in itself is too good to miss because of Marie's excellent cooking. During that time, Arthur reacquainted himself with Philippa and James, taking Philippa to school per her request and being ogled by her tween classmates, then kicking a soccer ball with James out in the backyard. Marie loved to hear how he found Paris and what areas he liked to frequent, sharing memories of her own, and Cobb liked to hear about Arthur's old jobs and about Saito.

Arthur felt the visit necessary and actually good for him. Cobb was the man he needed to talk to right now, and Cobb was always thoughtful over anything Arthur posed at him, whether it was what to do about Paris or paper work about coming into the real world. Besides, without the stress of having to answer to Saito and with having the excuse of vacation, he felt relieved of his worries, especially when all he had to consider was kicking the soccer ball back and forth in the lawn.

He flew back with less of a chip on his shoulder than when he first got there, and he felt good about seeing his old friend again, if only to remind him what was possible. He left California better refreshed and feeling more like himself than he had before.

He left California with a plan if anything.

* * *

"This is highly irregular," Eames says from his seat at the table, "Shouldn't you have asked an American friend or one of those nice office mates of yours to fulfill this need?"

Ariadne looks over her shoulder from the open oven in the kitchen. "It's a holiday Eames, not a need, and I wouldn't call it irregular."

"Really? Forcing an Englishman to celebrate Thanksgiving doesn't sound unusual and cruel? It's sort of like gloating in a way."

"Geoffrey Eames," she scoffs, her hands stuck in potholders as she drags out a small metal dish with a small bird on it. "All I asked for is company on a day that is very important to me. The least you could do is humor me."

Eames sighs when Ariadne places the fowl onto the table and she watched him inhale, slowly. The aroma, she knew, could convert anyone into a Thanksgiving lover. Even that of a proud Englishman like Eames.

"All right darling," he says, picking up the nearby carving knife and fork. "Where do we begin?"

It's been almost a year since she's been here, almost a year since she was too scared to venture further than the five blocks radius of her apartment or the office. She remembers the nights she spent writing e-mails back to Rebecca or Arthur, trying to hide her loneliness as she ate soft cheese and salmon sandwiches as she watched _Merlin_ on Friday nights.

She thinks of her last trip to Paris and how she left it bitter, stunted, awake with the realization that she was free, she was done. All those times she thought of going back, and when she finally did, she realized that she didn't need to go back at all.

Ariadne stands before the small table for two her apartment can fit. Hands on hips, she looks at everything proudly, despite how small everything is, despite the little amount she has to offer, she's made every single dish on that table. She looks up at Eames and pulls up the seat across from him. "First," she says. "We have to say what we're thankful for."

And Eames disappointedly puts the cutlery down and takes a moment to think, while Ariadne already knows what she wants to say.

* * *

_**A/N:** I wanted to thank greymidnight and SGundy for their unwavering support and Amethyst3232 and Guest for their reviews. My excuse on the late update is trying to finish the story in its entirety before posting anymore. I'm pretty close to the last chapter._

_Also, these final chapters would be nothing if not for The Lumineers' song _Stubborn Love, _which is just frank and beautiful and on repeat until I'm done._

_As always, thank you for reading!_


	9. Chapter 9

"So this is what early looks like," Ariadne said as Arthur led her to a cab out front. The driver and Arthur packed the trunk as Ariadne looked around the shady morning, a dress bag carrying her maid-of-honor dress draped over her arm and a pastry and coffee in her hands. The small hotel was still asleep, and there weren't many guests leaving at this time. Arthur and the cab driver seemed to make a lot of noise simply scuffling the walk to pack the car.

She took a sip of her coffee and a bit from the Danish she grabbed at the breakfast counter, and she looked over at a sleepy Arthur coming round the car. He walked over to her, and she handed him the cup, which he sipped gratefully. He asked for a bite of pastry too before sipping again.

"You know you can stay later and leave when you're more awake, right? I'm a big girl, I can manage the rail system back to Paris on my own."

Arthur took another bite and nodded. "I know." She chewed the inside of her lips and watched him as he ate. "Ready?" he asked, mouth slightly full.

Ariadne took a bite from the top, right where he just took one. She nodded and followed him into the car.

* * *

Sam and Liz's visit seems importune now that Arthur has more work to catch up with—Saito was not very happy with Arthur's impromptu Thanksgiving plans—but Arthur doesn't say anything because what should've been a vacation during Sam's spring break was pushed back to his winter break due to Arthur's misguidance after Ariadne's removal from Paris. He already lost uncle points with hardly being there.

Arthur had thought that he would leave on Saito's job offer sooner than expected and preemptively called it off, much to Sam's disappointment and Liz's disapproval. Instead, Uncle Arthur planned a new trip for the coldest time of the year.

Smooth.

So Arthur has a week before Liz and Sam are over for their visit, and he throws himself into research and back into the dwindling work for Saito.

The break from the businessman was less to be desired for Saito, and Arthur didn't make it any better when he told him that he only had a week before he had to take another break again.

"It seems to me, Arthur," Saito said over the phone, "that you're trying to tell me something."

Arthur didn't reply, actually unsure of what reply would be best at this moment, but Saito didn't wait for him to say anything.

"Does it ever astound you how old your soul is?"

Arthur paused at the question, taken aback by the turn of conversation. Of course, he felt it, almost every day he felt it, but he had forgotten about Saito's experience in the inception job. Saito was lost in limbo for God knows how long. Cobb later told him how aged the businessman was when Cobb found him. Years lost, truly encapsulated in a reality you begin to feel real. It was worst for Saito, who, without the experience, probably lost himself sooner, rather than later.

The experience didn't change him, or so it seemed. Saito took advantage of the division, continued to employ extractors and even Arthur to do a lot of dirty work for his corporation, but Arthur assumed the aggressiveness came as a result of seeing one's life pass for so long.

"I feel old Arthur," Saito went on, and for the first time, Arthur began to pick up on the weariness of the man's voice, a stark contrast to the razor-sharp businessman who hired Cobb and him years ago. "I feel it, but I know I don't look it. I know that I still have this life, but for what?"

Arthur began to see that he wasn't really necessary in this conversation and remained silent.

"You've been at it longer, but you haven't seen where I've been. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but Cobb knows. Cobb remembers…"

A place where Ariadne, Cobb, Mal, Saito, and even Fischer have been, but not Arthur. He was never part of that club. He couldn't imagine being there as long. He touched his totem in his pocket.

"It may seem odd, but I've looked at this opportunity as a second chance at life," he said almost wistfully. "Not many people get a second chance like this, and while I may not be doing good works or trying to be a better person, I am doing what I wanted. I'm leaving a legacy. I'm making my name known."

Either out of dramatics or reflection, Saito faded off, and Arthur wasn't sure if he should break the silence or embrace it. On tender hooks, he waited.

He lived hundreds of lives before. He carelessly threw away some of those lives, sure in the idea of their fallibility, sure in his own resilience once he woke up.

"So what is it that you're after Arthur?" Saito asked, calling him back. "Cobb had his children to go home to, but what about you?"

Arthur didn't really like the turn of the conversation. It was against his business principles and against his own. Despite working for him for years, Arthur didn't feel like he knew Saito. He felt this uncomfortable notion that Saito had been waiting for him to crack all these years, as if it were just a matter of time. "I'm not so sure yet, sir," Arthur replied dutifully.

Saito laughed. "We can't all expect the same comfort like a family waiting for us when we return, but I think you need to figure that out."

That comment cut Arthur more than he could admit. "I certainly hope I will," he remarked.

"Good. Good." Arthur imagined Saito nodding along as he spoke, probably facing his large window in his office on the top floor. "Keep in touch Arthur. I wish you all the best, truly," he seemed to add for good measure.

And as the words hit the point man, he suddenly was on his feet, his mind reeled. "Wait. Are you firing me, sir?"

"Well," Saito explained like he was debating with himself, "you get severance if I fire you. It is better this way."

Arthur couldn't help but feel offended. "I fail to see how firing me shows that."

Saito laughed, believing that Arthur was kidding. Arthur did his best not to scowl. A scowl could be heard on the phone, he knew. "Look at it this way, you have more time now to figure out what it is you want to be doing."

Arthur grimaced. "You're teaching me a lesson aren't you?"

"I found that you and Cobb best responded to challenges," Saito explained. "I'd call it a challenge if anything."

Arthur sits in front of his computer reading an e-mail and another. He takes out his black Moleskin and adds a few more to-do's on his list before replying back quickly.

He responds better to a challenge, that's true.

* * *

"Ready Ariadne?"

Ariadne looks up from her draft table at Sibyl and Paul near the door. She waves them off, telling them she'll be thirty minutes more and meet them down at the pub soon. They scoff and poke fun before leaving her to her own devices.

Almost a year. She's been here for half a year at least, and she can't believe the work she's done.

Rebecca and Louis came to visit on a few weekends, meeting her coworkers, inspecting her apartment, seeing her favorite haunts. The first weekend there, they spent it playing tourist, walking through the National Gallery, taking photos near Buckingham, and visiting the Eye.

Walking to see the famous Van Eyck, Rebecca grabs Ariadne's arm. "You're happier," she told her friend, and Ariadne looked up from her map to smile in return.

"I am."

"Who would've thought that you'd leave Paris? I'm pretty sure I voted you most likely to stay."

"Yeah, well if I married a Frenchman too, then maybe I would have," Ariadne quipped.

"It's not too late. Louis has cousins."

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Yeah because that's what I need. A long term relationship on top of my work."

Rebecca consulted their museum map before leading down another room. She spoke after a moment, "You're not going to let it consume you, are you?"

Ariadne held in a scoff at that. "What? The hypothetical long-distance relationship? No. You see, it's handy to have because I can ignore it when I want."

Rebecca's face grew serious. "Ariadne."

"Actually, I got kind of lost trying to contrive that joke," she admitted, "what were you talking about?"

"Your work, consuming you," Rebecca prompted.

"It won't."

Rebecca looked skeptical and Ariadne reassured her in broader terms as they made their way towards the small room where the famous wedding painting sat.

"I'm sorry," her friend spoke. "I'm just worried about you."

"You're married, of course, you're worrying about someone."

"No really, Ariadne. I can see you letting work get to you," Rebecca went on. "When I call you're still sketching or making calls, you're always busy. You never really seem to do anything else."

"It's fine."

"What about friends? What about leading a life outside of your draft table?"

"I have friends," she insists.

Rebecca looked at her critically. "What happened to Arthur?"

And Ariadne tried her best to make her face look blank. "I don't know. We just, petered off. When I went to Paris, he wasn't even there. For all I know, he's left." She looked down at her museum guide, an already dead giveaway.

"Do you miss him?"

Ariadne had thought of that tons of times. Had she missed him? She missed him that time she got lost around Leicester Square and that time she went to Hyde Park. She certainly missed him that time she went to Paris and found him gone for an unknown amount of time.

"Of course I miss him," she said, unable to deny that at least. She breeched a look at Rebecca, who had a careful, sympathetic look about her as she reached out for Ariadne, then pulled away.

"What happened during your stint at my wedding?" she asked, and Ariadne, despite herself, replayed snap shots of the evening in her head: their dance, walking back to the hotel, the kiss in the hallway, Arthur telling her he didn't want to try…

Ariadne shrugged. "Nothing. We just went on a hypothetical date and he walked me to my room."

Rebecca rolled her eyes at that. "Yeah because that isn't completely adorable."

"It was what it was," Ariadne said, turning away and trying to focus on the large oil painting in front of them, "and you were right. There's no coming back from it when it happens."

"Do you wish it never did?"

Ariadne studied the tiny mirror in the back of the room between the couple, squinting to make out the artist. "Sometimes, yes."

* * *

Sam and Liz have been there for three days with Arthur showing them around the city in the same way Ariadne had shown him. There are the main points like Notre-Dame, the Latin Quarter, the Seine, the Louvre, and now the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

How odd it seems to even think about the time when he hardly knew how to play tourist and here he was showing his family around like an expert. Most of what he knew of being touristy was the trip Ariadne had made for him years ago, and he follows her formula, saving the Eiffel for later, when Sam and Liz have gotten used to the pace.

They're curious, extremely curious, not only for tourists but because of Arthur's lifestyle before. Moving around from place to place, Liz was desperate to see how Arthur comported himself with domesticity, and Sam just wanted to see what sort of place was better to settle in than New York. The food alone, Sam decided was enough to make him want to stay.

As New Yorkers, they had a quick agenda and low patience level for certain things, like waiting for food at cafés, but Arthur idled even more because of them, prolonging his meal or his enjoyment at their destinations. It was funny to see Sam itch to keep going or Liz stifle a look at her watch, before Arthur gave in and allowed them to leave. It was funny to see it from this perspective, and he wondered if this was how everyone felt when he was the one who always itched to leave, always prepared to go on the next job, couldn't stay for the next holiday or weekend.

He wondered if this was how Ariadne felt every time he left her.

Despite the cold, Sam and Liz soldier through the cemetery, over the haphazard cobblestones and even venturing amidst the maze of tombstones. Sam's looking at the Plexiglas now covering Oscar Wilde's monument with confusion, walking around, and Arthur does a quick survey, seeing if that taffy wrapper survived this new addition. "So, when do I meet her?" Liz asks, sidling up to him.

Arthur looks up, eyebrows in the air. He shoves his hands in his pockets to face his sister. "Who?"

Liz doesn't miss a beat. "The girl you've been seeing."

"I haven't really had time to see anyone, Liz," he replies. "And wouldn't you think you've seen her by now if I had?"

"Well what about Ariadne?" she asks, and Arthur tries to remember what exactly he's told his sister about Ariadne, but the impish, patient smile on her face lets him know that he didn't need to in the first place.

It's mute to insist, but he does anyway. "We're just friends."

"Right, because friends decide to live together in Paris."

"We weren't living together," he corrects, turning to the stone itself.

"But you like her?"

Arthur doesn't say anything, but he searches the lips on the stone, trying to discern shapes and shades, heights from the ground to find hers.

A large smile grows on her face. "Arthur, have you told her?"

Arthur's been busy writing with Liz and Sam. He hasn't had time to focus on anything else.

Liz sighs, exasperated. "Arthur, you're an idiot."

Arthur runs his hand over the Plexiglas, looking. "I already know it, Liz."

"How long has this been going on?"

Arthur stops to think about it. "Five years?" He stops to think some more.

"You've been dancing around this girl for five years? And she stayed on for that?"

"To be fair, for a portion of that, she was seeing someone I set her up with," Arthur points out, still studying the tomb.

Liz gives another exasperated exhale, and Arthur looks at her over his shoulder to make sure she hadn't passed out from over dramatics. "When's the last time you talked to her at least?" she asks.

"Friends don't do that to one another Arthur, and it sounds like you really cared for her. You freakin' settled in her city for goodness sake. Where is she now?"

"London."

"Do you think it was your inability to commit?"

"What do you mean? I moved here didn't I?"

"But you did everything in your power to push her away."

"For her benefit," he points out.

"You cut yourself so short, thinking that staying here wouldn't be for her benefit."

"Why Liz," he says, smiling, "that's almost a compliment."

But she's quick to bring him down. "Shut it."

And Arthur laughs at his sibling's dower face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She doesn't join in and he sobers. "What?"

"Look, Arthur. She sounds amazing. It sucks that you couldn't keep her."

* * *

The building jolts slightly, as if thunder had hit nearby, and Ariadne flinched on the couch.

"What's happening?" she asked, moving.

He looked ahead, studying the expression's on the projection's faces as they turned to him. "Cobb's drawing Fischer's attention to the strangeness of the dream, which makes the subconscious look for the dreamer," Arthur explained neatly, "for me."

It was impulsive and his voice didn't change as he said it, his body didn't flicker and almost commanded her to do it. "Quick, give me a kiss."

He'd be lying if he said he was surprised she did it.

He'd be lying if he said that he didn't plan it that way.

Of course, he noted, she leaned in first.

* * *

Ariadne looks up. "What?"

"I'm actually really surprised that you and Arthur never," Tom starts, gesturing slightly with a sweeping wave of his hands across from her. Her takes a long swig of coffee after he makes this claim.

"Oh," Ariadne says picking it up quickly and looking down at the ceramic handle she runs her thumb against. "We did."

"Disastrous?" Tom asks.

"No," she says after a moment. "We dated for twelve hours and decided it wasn't for us."

"That sounds very certain for hardly trying at all."

Her voices holds warning over her coffee mug. "Tom."

"What? There were times when I questioned if we were the ones dating or if it was you and Arthur." He laughs a little and takes another drink and Ariadne doesn't feel embarrassed or angry at his tone or the lackadaisical way he refers to their relationship. That sense of dread that happened when she was leaving her apartment—she wasn't sure what to expect from Tom, hoping that this coffee wasn't going to be bitter—wasn't there. Tom always had that talkative quality that put everyone at ease. He matched his profession that way, because Ariadne was never sure how you could resist Tom's loquacious charm without feeling at ease and wanting to talk more too.

"Was it that bad?" she asks, a little self-consciously.

Tom shrugs but his voice is heavy with thought, and Ariadne doesn't look at his face. Anywhere but there. "I felt oddly competitive with a guy who was hardly there for you," he explains.

Ariadne thinks of the complete overall truth of this comment. "Yeah, well, I'm starting to realize that that's what he does," she says, hardly hiding the slight bitterness in her voice, and she knows that Toms picked up on it.

"I'd hate to say I told you so, but—" Toms stops himself and leans forward. "Did I tell you that I'm going to start covering some of the music festivals up north?" He asks, apparently thinking the better of that first thought, and Ariadne wants to slug him.

"What were you going to say?"

"North? A few of the festivals up north. I'll get to talk to some of the bands behind stage and get to see their sound checks, which is pretty cool…"

"No. Tom. Stop. You said you'd hate to say you told me so, but what, Tom?"

Tom sighed. "Ariadne, you know your own mind. Like it or not, even when you don't feel sure of yourself, you already know what you want. And while I wasn't the lucky one to fall in that category, I can't help but feel that Arthur is."

She doesn't say anything.

"I'm sure that whatever story you guys have is cute, but you both have a propensity to push people, in what you think is the best place for them, and for you two, it seems to be away from one another."

A few weeks before Thanksgiving, Ariadne headed back to Paris, riding on the two-hour train ride, she curled up into her coat, vaguely aware of the woman reading that fashion magazine near her.

She thought about calling Arthur ahead of time to tell him, but they had fallen out of contact. That last post-card, unanswered, was like a shot in the dark. She was embarrassed at the reverberation, dumb to be holding the smoking gun, but she justified her decision in sending it anyway.

"You have to want to be pushed for me to push you," she points out defensively.

"Yeah, well you guys are self-serving and mistaken."

Ariadne took a taxi from the train station, looking at her city with new eyes and sentimental longing. The bridges, the winding city, the architecture were familiar and brought up memories like a flipbook of photos how familiar everything was. She rested her head back to enjoy everything flying by the window.

She had business in Paris. It was odd to be back, true, but it was doubly so because of her errand. Despite the fact that this move was in all intents and purposes, permanent, Ariadne had no time to sell her place properly, so instead, she sublet it to an American couple, who wanted to stay for a vacation or a mid-life crisis. With the year almost up, and Paris, as it is want to do, having won them over, they wanted to discuss a more permanent solution. Ariadne had plans of her own and the couple's desire not only took her Paris apartment off her hands but also relieved her of any ties that may exist here for her next move.

Everything was settled pretty easily with the building's owner and the couple, and Ariadne walked out of the building, clutching her coat closed, and puling a hat on as she surveyed her next move.

Out of sentimentality, she purchased a ticket for later that evening, and without an apartment to lounge in, she had her old haunts—Rebecca having gone to the States for a proper Thanksgiving with Louis and her family—to turn to or…

Ariadne took the familiar route to his arrondissement, to his building. She buzzed the door for entrance, a few times, checking her watch. She tried calling, but her calls were met with static. Finally, a neighbor, one who knew her by sight, exited and Ariadne took a step back.

He was a rotund man who always carried a paper bag of crime novels around. Ariadne remembered that she helped him once pick them all off the stairs when he had a terrible run in with a dog owner on the landing. He looked at her cheerfully, holding his paper bag against his hip, he greeted her, and Ariadne replied in kind.

When she told him of her predicament, he looked a little lost, before explaining the last time he had seen Arthur: early one morning with a suitcase and a good coat on. He had asked in passing where he was off to, and Arthur waved him off with a quick good-bye and that he would be gone for a while. Ariadne frowned during the entire exchange but thanked him for the information before she headed out.

"He left," she explains to Tom. "He left without telling me," is the constant reminder in her head as she thinks about the hurt that overcame her when she realized, standing before a stranger she realized.

She felt embarrassed and foolish and hurt and cheated, and she plastered a tight smile onto her face before she wished him a good afternoon. She headed off from the stoop, grateful that this blunder could be kept to herself.

"What are you talking about?" Tom asks a little impatiently.

"I had to settle my sublease in Paris last month. He left again."

Tom listens patiently, sipping his coffee with graceless laziness in his hunched shoulders. "Well," he says thoughtfully into his cup. "He didn't know he was supposed to stay."

* * *

Her lips left his and she looked around wildly, studying the projections as they faced her, boldly.

"They're still looking at us," she said.

"Yeah. It's worth a shot," she heard him agree flatly, and at that she looked at him through the corner of her eyes, wondering. She met his sly expression.

Arthur didn't hesitate. "We should probably get out of here." And he was already up from the seat, leaving her to watch him for a moment, sneaky bastard.

* * *

She feels slightly used and cheated and hardly worth caring about as she sits on her couch in a big cardigan and sweat pants.

He's broken her heart before. She never dared admit it to herself, but she understands now what it meant when he left that first time without saying a word, just finding a note. She realizes now what it was that bit at her patience when she remembered waking up to find everything so neatly piled onto her couch.

It's that same feeling of being left and forgotten, not considered. Only that first time, she had reassurance. She had contact and he would come back. He'd want to be with her. She convinced herself that he did it because she understood this lifestyle and she accepted it because he was Arthur, but now she wonders if that was right anyway.

Complaining of his leaving that time, telling him that she didn't mean to but she loved him seemed a danger to their relationship. So when he settled, when her heart grew at his plans for growing roots near her, she told herself it was because it was Paris and that it won him over, that he wanted to settle there because he felt home in the city, and because she was a good friend, who understood where he came from, no questions asked.

That small inkling saying that it was more egged her on to stop herself from giving Tom an answer, it made her walk to several shops to look for the perfect accoutrements for his new home, and it egged her on to kiss him that night in his bed.

She told him to stay in Paris, to enjoy life, finally, rather than move around again because she could tell that that was what he wanted most, stability, reliability, and stasis. Her first clue was the fact that he kept on with Saito, always a food in the game if needed, an escape route visible when he had to jump ship.

He was already talking about taking the job the night she left. Worst off, she realized that he wasn't going to tell her about it anyway.

When he readily agreed to the 12-hour relationship, she knew it was because he didn't want ties elsewhere. She knew that he wanted to try to settle down properly.

But it hurt to realize that he was actually fine with leaving.

He just didn't want to leave with her.

* * *

They rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. Arthur looked down at her from the side, not facing her entirely. He wondered if they should talk about what just happened. If he should explain himself, but Ariadne remained silent and straight forward the entire way.

He wanted to say something, but he knew that he shouldn't make a promise he can't keep.

* * *

Sam, Liz, and Arthur rifle through the open crates outside the used bookstore. Liz has her head in a bin with thick recipe books with crusty covers and dated women on the covers. Sam's near a general section, flipping through what appears to be a French novel. And Arthur picks up old copies of classics, running his hands over the spines and admiring the aged binding, when Sam comes up to him, a French book held aloft.

"Do you know how to read this?" he asks.

Arthur takes it and flips through, picking up a few phrases here and there. "Are you looking into taking French?" he asks, handing it back to his nephew. Sam shrugs, accepting the book.

"I like it here," Sam says. "I should probably know the language before I move, right?"

Arthur considers his nephew for a moment, his age against the seriousness with which he takes this novel on. Throughout the trip, he's taken more in than a normal kid certainly would. Paris isn't the sort of place Arthur figured a kid would enjoy anyway, but Sam's been gung ho about the museums and the walking, even more enthusiastic about the food. Then again, considering Liz being his mom, Arthur can understand that.

"And what would you do here?" Arthur asks.

Sam shrugs again, somewhat discomforted by the close questioning Arthur can tell. "Well, what are you up to here?"

"Whatever my boss tells me, but many financial boring stuff."

Sam starts to pick at the same bindings that Arthur just was. "But you like it?"

Arthur laughs. "It's work."

"So you don't like it," Sam fixes. He turns to Arthur. "If you don't like it, then why do it?"

Arthur shrugs. "It's a job. I used to like it, but it's turned into something different."

Sam nods along to this, understanding apparently. "Mom had that at one of the restaurants she used to work for. She quit after six months because she said that it made what she loved about work."

"Yeah, well, you're mom's a chef in one of the best restaurants in Brooklyn. It worked out."

"Yeah, but it didn't for a while. I asked her later on why she did it, because she started to worry about money every once and a while—" Sam stops suddenly to look at Arthur, probably realizing that he over spoke. "Mom didn't want you know that," Sam says a little meekly.

Arthur nods, feeling guilty. "I can always help if it does, but I understand," Arthur replies, looking at Liz, who now held five large cookbooks in one arm.

"But she said that she did need to care about me," Sam continues, "and I told her that I just wanted her to be happy. She found work at similar places until she could find a better job, something to make her happier." Sam stops. "She found it now."

"I think it's a rare case when something like that can happen."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "But mom says that it wasn't just by chance. She said she had to find it." Sam looks at Arthur. "Will you buy this book for me?" he asks, holding the French novel up.

"Are you going to learn French?" Arthur asks a little dubiously.

"I could learn French," Sam offers. He flips through the book, testing words aloud with a broken, obvious accent. At Arthur's amused expression, he stops and holds it up. "I would like to learn French." He pushes the book towards him. "You could help me with my French," he suggests, the persuasion growing by each comment.

Arthur can't help but laugh at the kid as he grabs the book. "Fine, but one day in the future, you're going to read me a chapter in this and translate."

Sam's too preoccupied with the purchase and nods along as Arthur leads him to the register.

The conversation reminds Arthur of one he had with Cobb when he visited.

"What is it you're up to now anyway?" Arthur asked Cobb as he sat at the table, a charted schedule pulled up and a list of books on his open Moleskin before him. When his friend looked up from the stove, Arthur closed everything to give Cobb his undivided attention.

Cobb dried his hands on a dishtowel and turned to face him, leaning against the counter. "Small work here and there. I still have some connections in the legitimate community, but it's mainly just small things to do. Money's certainly not a problem right now."

Arthur nodded at that. "But don't you miss creating? Building? It was your first love before everything happened," he couldn't help but point out and as his words hit the ex-extractor, he can see the definite confidence in Dominic Cobb, who doesn't hesitate when he pushes himself off the counter. He does fiddle with the dishtowel between both hands.

"I miss it, and I still love studying it," he admitted. "But when it comes to all of this, I know that I inevitably want to be here with my children, that helping them build their lives is what I want to do now."

* * *

"Who's that man I saw you talking to earlier?" Eames asks looking at the blue print design framed in front of them. They stand in a gallery like setting in front of a wall as people walk along, mingling and with glasses of champagne or cocktails nearby.

Ariadne holds a champagne flute in one hand as her arm curls around her midsection. She slouches slightly in her chiffon cocktail dress. Despite the v-neck, she doesn't think too much about the proper way to stand. "Tom?" she asks, turning in the direction Tom had wandered off to. "He's an old friend from Paris."

Eames continues to look at the blueprint. "American?"

Ariadne's wrist is limp from the champagne flute, and she gives Eames an annoyed look that he misses, before she flicks her wrist as if to wave off his diffidence. "He's an old friend from Paris who came from America," she explains, before taking a sip.

"Ahh, rekindling old flames, are we?" he asks with that genuine sliver of mischief that Eames carries with him. Ariadne makes a sour face.

"It's not like that. Those flames have long gone," she says with more annoyance than intended. She takes another sip.

"Did Arthur like him?" Eames ventures and Ariadne looks over at Tom talking to Sybil near a conceptualized drawing of their plans for the building.

"He was okay with him, but you know Arthur. You have to pry out any emotion other than the expected one sometimes."

Eames' face is passive. "That's true. Have you spoken to him in a while?" And Ariadne's ears pick up on the forced question, the curiosity.

"I am truly surprised as to why people just keep asking me about him."

"Aren't you two bosom buddies or something?"

"More like acquaintances now." She sips her champagne. "I haven't spoken to him since I left France."

"You see, it's funny," he begins, facing his feet fully on her. "There are these really nifty gadgets where everyone's assigned a series of numbers, and when one calls those series of numbers, you can reach a specific person over large distances."

Ariadne rolls her eyes. "Shut up Eames. We just lost that connection. It's what happens."

"Now, that is where I'd have to disagree my dear Ariadne. Things don't just happen. They happen because we make them, or in your case, we let them happen."

"I resent the fact that this has to be all my fault."

"Well, Arthur's not here for me to talk to, you are," Eames says patiently, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

"Why do you care anyway Eames?"

Eames looks off for a moment before retuning to face her. "Because, like it or not, Cobb, Miles, Arthur, they're sort of like my family, maybe not the most traditional family—we don't spend holidays together—but we have been through a lot together. And despite his condescension and rigidity, I don't want him to end up like Cobb."

"Cobb's happy," Ariadne points out.

"He's happy now," Eames corrects. He takes a moment. "You never asked why I took on the inception job." Ariadne doesn't rebut, so Eames continues, "Sure it was the thrill, the fact that I knew Cobb could do it, and the money, but I also knew that Cobb possibly found a ticket home. And I was damned if I wasn't going to help him."

Ariadne doesn't know what to say. She sips her champagne to buy her some time. Eames was always the lackadaisical one, the careless, free one, who was just in it for the adventure, she supposed. She hardly knew him, she realized. She hardly even broached the surface of his loyalty to Cobb or Arthur. Arthur, she knew, had known the Cobbs for a while. He even regrettably mentioned his history with Eames, but Eames was always aloof. Aloof and happy that way. She never saw to push further.

"You showed up in Arthur's dream once," he says, cutting into her thoughts.

She starts at this.

"We were subjecting a rookie to the ways of dream extraction, and our target was Arthur. He didn't know, of course, and to my surprise there was a projection of you. You carried this worn out gold key, which for some reason, Arthur didn't very much like us knowing about."

Ariadne stares at the forger, and before her, she sees Eames bottle up back into the Eames she knew best. He grins good naturedly.

"Do what you want Ariadne, but Arthur puts those he loves best before him. If he isn't saying anything, then it is for good reason."

* * *

"You've got your work cut out for you," Eames said, walking around her corner of the warehouse and looking at the photos and snippets of blue print ideas she posted under his name.

"Not as much as you," she replied from the model she was working on. "When do you leave for your new job?" she asked, looking up.

Eames turned around, hands in his pockets. "Tomorrow, and I'll have a bunch to do anyway with keeping up as a lawyer."

"Law? How will you fake that?"

Eames smiled to himself. "Confidence, my dear Ariadne, is key when taking on anything new. Take a look at yourself. No idea who any of us are, no idea what dream con can do, and yet, here you are, planning mazes and entering dreams as if you've done it all your life."

"I like to call it a leap of faith," she said, holding her exacto-knife up as she spoke.

"At least you tried," Eames said. "At least you let your curiosity get the better of you, which is more to say than—" Eames scowled in what she assumed was supposed to be Arthur.

"Why do you guys not get along?"

"Oh we get along. We just make it bumpier than necessary."

"Eames."

"I'm not sure. Arthur's condescending and rude, but I know I can work with him. I know I can count on him. He's saved my life too many times to count."

"And I'm sure you've saved his."

"Well, I wouldn't have a running total on hand, but I'd hate to watch him die. That is," he said with a smile, "if it suits me."

* * *

Sam was asleep on Arthur's bed, when Liz pulls up onto the couch next to Arthur. She has a glass of wine held between her two hands, her knees pulled up. "So why don't we go there?"

Arthur looks up from his laptop. His hands hover over the keys, trying to remember what he was saying. "What?"

His sister avoids his eyes as she drinks her wine, looking ahead at the glowing living room. She pulls her knee closer and sits back against the cushions, clearly satisfied.

He bought this couch with Ariadne from a shop only a few blocks away from her home. They spent the entire day scouring Paris for furniture stores, sitting on cushions, looking at chairs as if they were modern forms of art, tilting their heads this way and that, finding small judgments like the color, material, squashiness. They found this one on a whim. Arthur liked the deep brown color, but Ariadne disliked the comfort of leather.

He sat on it first, and she looked skeptical as he lounged, until he convinced her to try it, luring her with the promise of lunch. And she sat down, propping her legs up on the table before her, and she sank back into the cushions. He watched her through the edges of his eyes as she sighed, clearly satisfied.

"London," Liz says, taking a long sip from her glass. "She's over there, isn't she? Sam and I would love to see London."

Arthur turns back to laptop and closed it shut to replay that comment in his mind. London. Sam and I would love to see London. His sister appears serious over this suggestion, and Arthur grows slightly nervous at that. "Yeah," he replies that façade covering his features and voice, years of practice helping him. "Because bringing your sister to your declaration of love is exactly what I should do," he finishes sarcastically.

And Arthur knew that he made a misstep because of the glint in his sister's eyes, the slight tightening at the corner of her lips. Liz smiles knowingly.

He can't help it. "What?" he asks.

Liz takes her time, swishing her wine in her glass before turning to her brother. "So you love her?"

Arthur doesn't hesitate, propping his feet onto the coffee table, he brings his arms on top of his chest. "I've always loved her."

* * *

It's reminiscent of the old days, the days when she started at the idea of seeing him again, before she knew that her excitement and eagerness to talk to him meant more than she acted. Right now, standing in the waning light of the morning, a coffee in her hand as she reads the text.

And assesses her options. She doesn't have to. She's decided that she's over it. She's numb to the idea of him really. She's been this way for a while now and has come to terms with not knowing him anymore. If she saw him again it wouldn't matter, she decided.

But this tests her more than she thought she'd have to be tested. It's quintessential Arthur. The same way that he has to be buttoned up and his hair has to be slicked back. The same way he used to when he was still traveling and they were still friends.

And she can't deny that it's the same way for her in just reading the name of the sender. The same way that quintessential Ariadne is her scarf, her curiosity, her reply. It's almost against her better judgment really.

_Sure. Let's meet._

* * *

She meets them at the train station, arms folded over one another as she stands and waits around King's Cross, amidst the busy travelers. She sees them immediately once the train's pulled in and she sees a slight easy difference about Arthur as he walks with his sister and nephew.

Despite the text request telling her in brief terms that he'll be in London for the afternoon and the fact that he's showing his family around, Ariadne cannot really fathom what exactly she was expecting when she saw him. Mentally, she prepares for playing cheery hostess of the city she's come to understand, but she wonders at what will actually come out.

Arthur meets her in a few strides, and she doesn't reach out for a hug like she would normally with anyone, even Arthur. Their greetings are quick and precise, and she studies Liz and Sam with curiosity, finding hints of Arthur in Liz's smirk, Sam's lifted eyebrows.

Liz takes Ariadne's hand cordially. "I'm sorry we just threw this on you," Liz says, and Ariadne appreciates her easy way of talking, how expressive her face is. "We wanted to stop by London on an afternoon while Arthur was working, but when he mentioned that he knew someone here, I coaxed him into coming. I hope we didn't ruin any of your plans?"

Ariadne smiles. "Not at all. I've been needing an excuse to step back from the drafting table for a while."

Liz's eyes light up. "You're an architect! A lot of Arthur's friends are architects, like Dominic? Have you met him?"

Ariadne looks at Arthur before replying she had, and Arthur suavely brings everyone to attention over their lack of plans. Either overwhelmed or completely disregarded, they name off a few places of interest without making a decision by the time they're out of the train station. So they attack London with less of a plan than Ariadne had shown Arthur Paris.

"How very un-Arthurlike," she can't help but point out, and she doesn't miss the look Liz sends towards her brother.

"This was a bit of a last minute decision," she admits as Ariadne notices the daggers coming from Arthur.

They decide on Platform 9 ¾ for Sam's benefit, and decide on walking to see Buckingham and Big Ben. The day's pretty sunny for it, the weather's still cold but bearable, and the walk seems appealing if only to see more along the way. Ariadne and Arthur start off, talking disjointedly about Liz's trip and what has he taken them to.

"Did you know that they put a plexiglass over the Oscar Wilde tomb?" he asks, describing their visit to the famous cemetery.

Ariadne gasps at that. "No!"

"Yeah, so you're lucky you lived to tell the tale."

"And you advised against it," she chides smugly.

"You did have a nasty cold that winter."

"Mm," she murmurs, unsure if she did or not. The conversation's light, breezy, cool as the weather they're braving, and Ariadne knows she can keep this up if she wants. She can let this opportunity go this way all day, but she also knows that she doesn't want to do that. They walk a bit in silence before Ariadne opens it up again. "Arthur, why did you guys come here so last minute?"

Arthur starts at that and sinks back down. For a moment, she wonders if he'll even say anything, but then he goes on, "Liz coaxed me into it. She wanted to see you actually."

She's genuinely surprised. "Me?"

"Yeah," he admits. "I've spoken about you enough that I think she wanted a picture to go with the stories."

"What sort of stories?" she asks, clinging to these words despite her better judgment.

"She wanted to see who abused me while I lived in Paris," he says turning to her with that same tight, jocular smile he always had. His eyes squint as he does so.

"That was your decision."

"To be abused?"

"To live in Paris."

Arthur faces forward. "Yeah, and it was your choice to live here," he goes on. "There's no harm in that." She's not certain what that means, but his choice of words bothers her.

After that, she doesn't press any further and conversation becomes more self-conscious. It should feel strained, and it does, yet Ariadne attempts to keep everything afloat while simultaneously avoiding anything more. They fall into quick silences, which take hard work to fight off. Even then, suggestions or new topics of discussion fall off after a few words as if they're living their e-mails, then somehow Ariadne falling in step with Liz as Sam marches forward eagerly.

Ariadne decides that she likes Liz. She's easy to talk to and has a matter-of-fact way of saying everything that Ariadne appreciates. She makes decisions without looking back and scolds Sam and jokes with him easily, handling the nine-year-old with apparent laissez faire care but keeping an eye on him at all times.

Ariadne falls into talking about New York with her, asking where she lives and what it's like. Liz asks about how long Ariadne's been living in Europe and where she's from and what she does. Ariadne takes an interest in Liz's cooking, asking about the restaurant she works at.

It's easy talk. Niceties anyone would ask, but Ariadne enjoys it, actually listening when Liz relates a funny store about the first time she made duck confit and how she always wanted to study in Paris.

"Which is why we've been trying to come over here for a vacation," Liz explained. "Arthur knew I've been dying to come here, but never really gave my self an excuse to come."

"So Arthur took you to Paris?" Ariadne asks.

"No, we're visiting him," Liz explains, perplexed.

"Oh I forget that he has an apartment there still," Ariadne works out.

Liz still seems confused. "No, he's been living there. I thought you helped him move in?"

Ariadne fumbles for an explanation. "That's right. I'm sorry. I thought Arthur had left after I had. He talked about it before, and well, we just haven't really kept in touch with each other since." She fumbles over her explanation before giving up on it completely.

Liz's face turns from confusion into pure understanding at this, and she nods as she speaks, watching Sam and Arthur lead the way out of the park. "He has a tendency to leave doesn't he?"

"It's all part of his job," Ariadne excuses with habitual weariness.

"A job that he doesn't really like to talk about."

Ariadne remains quiet, and Liz doesn't press it, though Ariadne can feel her eyes on her. "Look," Liz starts. "I know I've hated my brother for leaving us and ignoring us, but I don't think he does it to intentionally hurt us or that he really forgets us." Liz chews the words carefully before going on. "I think he does it because he thinks it's best for us. Do you know what I mean?"

Ariadne doesn't say anything.

"He's actually a pretty good guy," Liz continues. "When he cares for something, or is passionate about something, he's all there."

"I know," Ariadne says, watching Arthur and Sam run ahead to look at some of the birds hopping along the walk.

"I'm not sure that you get me Ariadne. I think that—"

And Ariadne turns to her quickly. "Look, this is really sweet of you to play wingman to him," Ariadne interrupts. "It's nice that he still has family he can turn to, and I'm happy for him if he finds that thing to make him feel settled but this is really unnecessary."

Liz doesn't say anything, and Ariadne worries over her hurt feelings then—

"Why?"

That's just a question of the decade isn't it? Ariadne's not sure why. She's not sure why she blurts it all out, only that it's been on her mind for the last few weeks. "I've had my feelings broken by him more times than I'd like to admit, and as much as people keep telling me that it's my fault for letting him go, I'm done."

Liz politely or awkwardly remains tight-lipped after that and leaves the subject alone, instead, talking about Paris and the food, what they've seen and where Arthur's taken them. She walks with Sam or Arthur for a good bit of the way, and Ariadne doesn't mind or feel self-conscious around her. She takes picture of all of them, posing in some herself near the gate at Buckingham Palace, and she wonders at these memories she'll be in when they look over these photos later. She would see a photo of a smiling version of her, facing the camera, standing in front of the landmark, but none of the worry or over-thought. She's tense around Liz for a while, but when nothing more is said, she relaxes. The subject's dropped for good it seems.

Of course, that's until they meander past the gates and towards the park, walking without plans. Liz stops suddenly. "Sam wants to go see the London Eye," she admits, holding her son in front of her, her chin on his head. He's a physical shield from the optical lasers Ariadne's beaming at her. "And I know it's a really long line, so I can take him, if you guys want to go off somewhere."

Arthur looks at Ariadne. "That works for me. I wanted to go see St. Paul's actually." He pauses slightly before turning towards Ariadne. "Do you want to go with me?"

Ariadne didn't. "Sure."

* * *

Arthur didn't understand what Liz and Ariadne had said to one another, but he did notice how Ariadne would look at him warily every once and while as they took photos near Buckingham Palace.

"Did you say something to Ariadne?" he asked Liz as Liz focused the camera on Sam near the gate.

Liz didn't reply right away, ordering Sam to pose in a certain way.

"Liz." Arthur's voice held warning, and he spotted Ariadne further off, looking at the statue of Victoria nearby.

"Great job kid!" she cheered, and she turned back to Arthur, "I did, okay?"

Arthur grimaced. "What happened?"

Liz physically looked tight lipped as she turned to look for Ariadne. "I'm not sure that you should talk to her."

"What do you mean? This was your idea."

"I know, but—Arthur what are you planning?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that, whatever your plans for the future are, I think they can affect whatever Ariadne may think of you," she says uncertainly.

Arthur shakes his head as he replays the conversation over and holds the bar above Ariadne's head as the tube takes a sudden stop. The doors nearby swoosh open and people around them begin to disembark.

His plans for the future. He wonders again how or what his sister and Ariadne spoke of for Liz to back out. Liz, his champion in anything. He wonders if it's a sign that he should too.

"This is our stop," she reminds him, and Arthur nods, following the petite woman off the train.

"Mind the gap," a voice overhead advises.

He decides that he won't.

* * *

They make their way up the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, up the winding stone staircase near the altar, past signs asking those with heart conditions to turn back, and up, up, up, towards the whispering gallery.

He wonders if she's remembering her own version of this, years ago, when they dreamed together, how she pieced the cathedral and the stones with flicks of her hands and turns of thought. Real life wasn't enough for her then, he remembers. Dom saw it in her that first time they dreamed together.

She orders him to one side of the oval and she sits on the other end far across from him along the bench lining the walls. She's a maroon and denim speck on the diameter line, and he waves. She responds, before turning to face the wall next to her.

He hears it clearly from the small hole that punctuates the stone near his right ear, he hears it as clear as day. "Hello! How are you?" she asks, cheerfully unaware.

He doesn't hesitate as he turns to it, freed to tell this and anyone listening. "I miss you," he tells her.

He watches from across the diameter as she sits down and faces him. He can't discern her expression, but from here, he sees her astonishment in her body language, her stiffness, her posture. She doesn't say anything after that.

* * *

"It was never a question of if, but of when wasn't it?" Dom asked once while Arthur busily typed on his laptop during his stay.

Arthur looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table. "What do you mean?"

Cobb shrugged, stirring a pot slowly, he tossed a kitchen cloth onto his shoulder. "You never had any scruples over her safety, over our jobs, or anything when you kissed her in that dream."

Arthur didn't say anything.

"I was too wrapped up to see it at the time," Dom said, more to himself than to Arthur. He looked up at Arthur's constant, flat expression. "Eames saw you."

Arthur looked back down at his laptop, his ears burning.

"Don't feel ashamed. You've seen worst with me and Mal."

"Dom, let's not talk about this please," Arthur said through gritted teeth. "I particularly don't want to reminisce on the time with you and Mal."

"It was sort of funny," Dom went on, and Arthur hated how comfortable Dom was with bringing up his dead wife despite it showing how comfortable he was with her absence. "But really Arthur, for you, it was never a question of it, but of when."

And Arthur kept typing, avoiding his friend, and blocking him out.

"And, in my experience," Dom continued. "When? It never just happens."

* * *

They sit on the steps of St. Paul's, pigeons and tourists mingling around them. The day is gray, gray, gray as typical as English days can get, despite the earlier sun. Promised rain has forced umbrellas in hands and galoshes on feet. Ariadne arranges her own umbrella in her hands, looping her wrist under the wooden handle and touching the end point onto the stair in front of her. She pokes the ground glumly.

"Arthur," Ariadne begins, turning her knees to face him. "I'm sorry—"

He stops her with a rueful smile. "It's fine, Ariadne. I didn't expect—"

"No. It's not that." He waits patiently as she struggles to find the words. "I need to tell you something." And for a minute, she can see Arthur's face hearten, but true to Arthur form, he keeps it bay, waiting for her to finish. She quickly adds. "We're friends. There's little in my life I find stable, and we're actually one of them, despite our yo-yoing back to one another. You've always been there for me, and I value that beyond anything else. I don't want to ruin that."

His whisper hit her like a ton of bricks, and at his request—"I think we should be together"—She felt immobilized by it. She just stared across the way, at the small speck with the slicked back hair. A small part of her told her to turn to the wall, to whisper right back that she'd go back one day, to appease him. Then another part, this small hidden part, she thought she was done with, won over and made her turn to the wall, the words ready on her lips before she could stop them. "Arthur, I'm sorry-"

And she heard it so clearly, the response so straightforward and matter-of-fact that she wasn't sure if this was properly Arthur or not. "We need to be together."

They walked outside in a daze, neither of them saying anything to one another until she took a seat on the steps a few feet away from other straggling tourists. "Do you remember when you stayed with me for two months?" she asks. Arthur nods slightly. "Saito had some jobs for you and you agreed to stay with me for a while." She doesn't wait for a reply from Arthur, already knowing that with his memory, he already knows. "I think I realized that I loved you then, but I never said because you left so suddenly, and all I had of you was a note." She exhales sharply.

"You left again Arthur," she explains. "At least I thought you left, around Thanksgiving, I went back. I had to settle the apartment, and when I went to visit you, I thought you left." The story's a jumble, but half of her is too self-conscious to even go back and fix it.

His voice is very strong but perplexed. "I went to visit Cobb."

And she's quick to correct herself. "I know. Liz said something that cleared it up."

She doesn't say anything more, but as the silence begins to come upon them, he clears his throat. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she interjects. "It really is, because I also realized that I really could've ruined something so great as what we have right now." She clasps his hand in hers.

She feels his hands wrap around hers tightly. "Losing touch and finding one another again? We're not even talking to each other anymore," he says, and Ariadne flinches slightly at the bitterness in his voice. "What about stability?"

"We're not like that Arthur."

"We could be," he poses.

"We tried it before."

"A fake relationship doesn't really constitute as a try, Ariadne."

"Well, it's made us worst," she argues lightly. "We're not even speaking anymore." Arthur looks stoic, and Ariadne sighs. A breeze comes by and sweeps her hair to the side and she pulls a few strands out of her face. "Fine. How?"

She knows it before he even says it, "I'd come with you."

She scoffs quickly, "You know I wouldn't want that for you."

"Why do you think I chose Paris?" he asks a little angrily and she knows that he's done it without thinking.

Ariadne doesn't say anything, her heart feeling heavier despite her conscience being free. He loves her, she repeats over and over in her mind. She's dazed with this harbored emotion she desperately buried years ago. She's surprised and confused but extremely careful.

A part of her takes notes of everything for later.

That same part wants to know what later her would be doing. If she would be in her apartment alone or with Arthur, still talking.

His words bear down on her, bringing her back. His clasp on her hand is so tight, she can feel him will her to understand, but she understands it better than he does. She already had to bear it. "I really do love you," he says without strain on the words, allowing their meaning to rest on her.

"I know," she placates. "But, I've been hurt before, unintentionally, but it's still there."

"It was there because we didn't know about this before."

"Arthur, it was there because I was never sure of you," she goes on. "Why do you think I ended up with Tom and not you? Or why we had a twelve-hour relationship that didn't work out?" she asks, unintentionally allowing her bitterness to let herself get the better of her. She's already handled this before. She's already been better from it, and she realizes that it's incredibly unfair to even voice it like a punishment. She just can't hide the fact that she feels better about saying these words aloud.

"So I'm just supposed to give up because I failed some test I didn't know about?" Arthur shakes his head. "We never even talked about it Ariadne."

"Arthur, you were coming to my apartment when you were off of work, you had a key to my place. What else did that mean to you?"

"You invited me. You gave me that key. I never asked for any of that."

Ariadne can't hide the disappointment from her face at this and she sees Arthur retract. "What about the postcards?" she asks a little regrettably.

Arthur doesn't look at her at first. "I sent those—I sent them because I didn't know who else to write."

Ariadne's face fell further.

He reacts "This isn't going how I want it to go."

"No, I understand."

"You really don't."

"I'm sorry Arthur, but you stopped talking to me first," she points out. It's odd hearing the words you never really expected to but always wanted. It's odd rejecting them too. But she feels safe doing it. "You're the one who moved on first, and I just took the hint. I'm just not waiting around anymore." She can't hide the defense in her voice, that raw, unguided hurt that takes over in retaliation to all of this. Now. Of course, now he says these things.

Arthur's face blanks, and she can see that familiar calculation in his face, like the quiet before a crack of thunder. "It's not like that," he says without any sort of rise to his voice, just a simple statement of fact. It makes her curl up inside at her prods of anger. "We're supposed to be together," he decides, and Ariadne can't tell if he means to speak these words aloud or not.

She licks her lips before she speaks. "Arthur," she begins, reigning herself in somewhat, "if we were supposed to be together, we'd be together."

Arthur doesn't say anything to that, and Ariadne starts to retract her hands back. She holds back the apology that she feels necessary, but knowing it isn't quite needed. "I'm just there to be some sort of proof that you're actually settling down. I'm just there to show you that you can do something outside of this faux-life you've been living. I'm not going to fix anything for you." She takes her time explaining these words, choosing them and saying them with a heavier purpose than she normally would with conversation. She's at the end of her hand now, and Arthur's clasp begins to feel light on her fingers.

"I don't expect you to!" They stop because of his out burst, and she finishes dragging her hand out of his. The coin's entirely switched now, she thinks, dwelling on her regard towards economy and his turn towards frankness.

"Look," she says with a weary sigh. She can't hide the exasperation in her voice, because she's not used to talking to him in this way. She says things she never wanted to fault him for. She's learned to accept it of him. She's learned to love him despite it even. But she's also learned that she can't rely on him because of it. "You stopped calling me. You stopped keeping contact, not me. I shouldn't be feeling like I did something wrong here," she finishes, turning to gage a reaction from him.

Arthur doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at her anymore.

"But," she starts again. "I feel guilty, like I'm waiting, when I know that I've finally found a place that makes me happy. I feel like I'm stuck because of you, and I love you, you know that, but it's better that I just love you as a friend, than anything else." Ariadne pauses, looking at the steps before her. "I'm sorry that I'm not stuck waiting for you anymore, Arthur," she says, looking up at him, "but I'm done."

* * *

"Have you ever thought about coming back?" he asked, and Ariadne looked up from his shoulder sleepily.

They were on the train back to Paris coming back from Rebecca's wedding and the waning sunrise began to chase them down the tracks. Ariadne had done her best to stay awake until finally Arthur granted her permission to fall asleep on his shoulder, his music player shared between them. It was a pretty junky, old one he always used on jobs when they needed outside help, and one of the top songs on it was Edith Piaf's.

It played often, probably due to the amount of times it played for jobs and practices, it became a popular one on his player, only compounding on the amount of times it played, so the cycle remained perpetual. And usually Arthur skipped it, already tired of the opening and the words and message. It was too bad really, because it was a beautiful song, but this time, when it came on, an earbud in his and one connected to Ariadne, he allowed it to go, giving into the sentimentality and the moment all at once.

He felt Ariadne shift next to him, saw her eyes dully slit open as her hand found his near her lap. She dragged it across onto her own, and Arthur watched this action as if he wasn't inside his own body, as if it weren't his hand at all.

"Have you ever thought about coming back?" he asked, and she looked up at him sleepily.

"I'd like to," she replied, a yawn mixed into her words. "Maybe with this under my belt, Parisian firms will be barking at my door."

Arthur watched her closed eyelids. "I'm sure."

"We'll have to see where I am in six months at least," she said, eyes shut. "Or maybe a year."

"Six months is doable," he reassured her. "A lot can happen in a year." He reached down and kissed her on her temple. "You should probably sleep more."

And he adjusted how he sat for her to find a place on his shoulder to nestle into.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Thank you to FudgeFanatic, Laura-x, SGundy, and A. Pevensie for their reviews and support and to anyone who has favorited or followed this. As always, thanks for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10

Ariadne sees Arthur, Liz, and Sam off that evening after taking them out for proper pub food, mushy peas with their fish and chips. She reaches over, giving everyone hugs before they board, and keeping Arthur alone for a second longer. He knows that she feels better for their talk. He knows that she thinks they fixed things and that they can return to everything like before. He can tell from the growing comfort with which she talks to him, hugs him even. He doesn't try to ruin it at all for her.

He knows better.

"How'd it go?" Liz asks from across the small divide sitting on the train. Sam begins to fall asleep on her shoulder.

Arthur turned to Ariadne, sitting on the steps of St. Paul's. He sighed, heavily. "If you want it out, I left conning because, you inspired me to do it." He waited a moment to see what she'd say, and when she didn't, he continued. "I wanted to see if I could do it myself."

She appeared to be considering this. "And could you?"

He feels himself smile bashfully at this admittance. "I realized that I never really tried."

Ariadne nodded along, knowingly, and Arthur felt that this was the wrong thing to say at the wrong moment.

"But," he said, grabbing her hand, almost for reassurance but mainly just for the strong bit of contact. "That's not your fault. It's mine for leaving you."

She didn't retract, which he took as a good sign. "Arthur, I left you."

"And I didn't come with you." He reached over and pulled her closer to him. "That was my mistake from the beginning."

Arthur's looking out the window of his seat, facing his own reflection in the darkness. "We're still friends," he informs his sister.

He can see Liz's pulled expression in the reflection amidst the dotted train station lights. "Just friends?" she asks, and he can feel that she's doing her best not to say anything else.

"She doesn't want anything more," Arthur says simply, knowing that Liz would accept it and leave him alone.

On the cathedral steps, he pulled Ariadne towards him, his lips finding hers again and again and again, until he felt her pull away slightly. His name was a warning whisper, and he took a smug satisfaction that she hadn't opened her eyes yet. "Arthur."

"Yes?"

"I don't—"

It was immediate, this feeling. He retracted back, disallowing himself to hear any more. "I'm sorry."

She leveled a look at him, her large brown eyes watched him and made him think otherwise. "Arthur, I realized this past year, that I have to learn to be without you."

Arthur didn't reply.

"I had to come to terms that you didn't need me too."

Arthur felt his expectation plummet. He rushed forward in a haphazard manner, "That's exactly what I'm telling you now—"

"I'm really happy for you, Arthur," she interrupted. "I want you to figure out your own happiness too, but I just think that we're better off as friends."

Arthur pulled his hands away, quickly, regrettably. "Friends?" he repeated. The word used to mean the world to him, when he had her as this stable figure to return to.

She sighed. "Yes."

Arthur had a hollow smile on his face as he looked out the rest of the London block. "You're kidding yourself, if you think that's all we are," he said.

Ariadne appeared to register this, and Arthur regretted his bitter words as he saw the transformation of her hurt face into a brave one, how quickly that determination looked to him. "I honestly don't think so."

He remembered what she had said, about having to bear it before, about realizing that she loved him long ago, and about how she came to terms with her feelings being unreturned. He witnessed this transformation all along, encouraged her with his lack of admission. He left her too often, grew too comfortable in having her there when he came back. Compared to his life of flights, tome zone changes, endless hours of recon, and extraction, he found her stasis a comfort. The idea of returning to her in Paris was the same satisfaction of coming home from a long day and collapsing onto his couch. The one they bought together.

His first sign that she wasn't always there for him was Tom. Granted, he was the one who mistakenly brought them together, but if Arthur was honest, he didn't think of Ariadne's progression without him. Sure, Arthur wanted her to find something to make her happy, and yes, he knew she had a day-to-day life while he spent days, years, in a dream, but he just assumed that they would be there for one another at the end of the day.

He knew he was attracted to her early on. It grew into respect and friendship, which grew into this want, this gut feeling that he couldn't let her go on without being in her life. He credited Eames for dragging him back into hers.

It became love without his knowledge, to the point that he hadn't realized that that was what he was doing for so long. There wasn't a look or a word from her that made him think it. He assumed it with a quiet, calculated eagerness he assumed everything, shouldering it, watching it, and suspecting it.

Her relationship with Tom made him realize that she was more than just someone to wait for him. He thought it best to let her go, but Dom said something to him before he left about it not being a question of if but when.

In listening to her, Arthur began to realize that he had missed his opportunity at when long ago. He distrusted himself each time she gave him the opportunity: the key, the date, the twelve-hour relationship. Moments when he should've said but held back. And for what? Because he was responsible Arthur? Because he had a slight fear of where it would end up?

He couldn't quantify or research this. He could probably predict a good amount of probable outcomes, but he couldn't figure out what he wanted in time. He couldn't trust himself when it came to something like this.

To himself, he admitted that he loved her this entire time, and he went against his better instincts and let her go.

Sitting on the steps, Arthur stood up, patting his thighs in a way to signal the end of this conversation. "All right," he said, getting up and lending a hand to her. "Friends. Only—" He pulled her towards him again, his hands along her waist and his forehead dangerously close to hers. "—do you think I could persuade you?" His manner was half joking, half calculating, and he studied her uneasiness in the wavering focus of her eyes.

Ariadne's breath was coming out in small hitches, and Arthur ran his fingers along her waist, feeling her startle at every single movement.

She took a moment to disengage herself, but she nodded firmly as she led the way down the stairs, a tight, forced smile on her face. Arthur couldn't help but feel that that wasn't a proper answer.

"Just friends." Liz says, thoughtfully across from him. "And how do you feel about this?"

He pushed Ariadne away, when all she wanted was him in the first place. The night of their twelve-hour relationship, he told her it wasn't a good idea for it to go further, and he saw her brave a face as she agreed. He thought he could wait for when.

Arthur doesn't hesitate when he turns to his sister sitting across from him. "Great,"he said, prompting himself to feel it. "Just great."

* * *

"Ariadne," Rebecca scoffs on the phone as Ariadne sits in the wooden seats in the emptying King's Cross Station. Arthur's train left hours ago, and yet here she sits, her phone at her ear, her short legs stretched out, and her neck arched all the way back to look up into the rafters of the station. She admires the industrial quality of it. "Honestly, Ariadne. I don't know what to do with you. He said everything right this time."

"No. He said everything too late," Ariadne corrects. "I'm not going to fix his life for him."

"But he wants you to be there when he does."

For the first time since she watched them leave, Ariadne begins to regret her resolution. She sits up in her seat, questioning herself, calming herself down as Rebecca's insistence grates on her raw nerves. Sitting with Arthur's family for food, pretending that everything was okay, was enough.

Ariadne rolls her eyes. "It's not what I heard and it's not what I feel. I've already been disappointed by him too many times," she insists harshly. "I don't want to count on him like that, so why should I expect him to count on me?"

There's a pause that makes her feel extremely silly as she waits for Rebecca to reply. Safe in the life of freshly wedded bliss, she feels that Rebecca can say these things. She looks to the past, rather than looking to the future, which Ariadne feels more concerned with.

Her friend doesn't say anything for a few moments until, "If you think that this is the best place for both of you, then I'm happy for both of you."

Ariadne leans forward, holding her mobile close to her ear. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"But I reserve all rights to tell you, I told you so, when it comes to it," her friends says with a smile Ariadne can hear over the line.

Ariadne lightens at this. "Oh Rebecca," she says with a sigh, "always the optimist."

* * *

As they sat on the rocks and as the light rain still pelted down under the sunny sky, Ariadne spoke about Limbo, what she saw of Mal and how Dom stayed to get Saito. Arthur merely shook his head and Ariadne demanded to know what that was for.

"Of course this was going to get botched up," he said tiredly. "Cobb kept throwing wrenches into the plan, from Mal, to the plan, to you. It wasn't going to be a clean job. But, you, you ended up where I was trying to save you from." The way he said it, as if it was unperceivable for her to go there and back again without a scratch on her.

"I didn't lose myself," she pointed out rather defensively.

"No, no you didn't." He turned to look at her, his eyes softening and a slight quirking of his mouth implied a smile. "I'm glad you didn't."

* * *

Arthur goes back to work once Liz and Sam leave, busy writing, and frantically finding connections he used to have when he was legitimate. Thankfully, a few are still there, and thankfully, a few remember him and are willing to help.

He mentioned this to Liz when he hugged her before the security gate. "Really?" she asked, ears perked for yet another scheme to butt into. "And where are you thinking of going to, dear?"

Arthur shrugs, holding his cards close to his chest. He touches the die in his pocket out of habit. "Wherever they'll have me," he replied suavely, and Liz had the audacity to ruffle his combed back hair as a retort.

"They'll take you anywhere you want," she said, hugging him hard, his arm behind him swiping the stray strands down. "Just make sure we know your phone number."

Arthur reads through an e-mail from an old favorite professor at Columbia. He's near retirement but has connections, advice, and also an invitation to see him whenever Arthur's back in the states. Arthur reads the message again, a little smugly. He remembers settling down to write the initial message in the first place back in Cobb's kitchen, Philippa sitting next to him as he did it.

The correspondence has been pretty relaxed, joking about old times and trying to catch up on news, and Arthur finds himself at least a step in the right direction, and thinks that at least it's a step away from where he is now.

Saito stopped calling. He expected the businessman to come back, needing him, but Saito doesn't, committing to this challenge, unintentionally, egging him on. He feels that this is a better way too.

So he writes, asking for advice, looking up work, talking to Cobb. He flounders some nights on his own, and thinks about simply retiring somewhere entirely. Then he inevitably gives up on that idea, because he realizes that that really isn't his style. He needs more of a purpose than just retirement. Cobb has his children. Miles has his classes. Saito has his empire. Arthur wants to feel that similar passion and sense of worth in something. He at least feels comfort in these e-mails, small as they are to balm this pressure in his head.

He doesn't call Ariadne to tell her about it. He doesn't really explain it fully to Liz either. He wants to keep this seed to himself, if only to watch it grow a little more, until he can properly claim it to others.

* * *

Arthur woke up, stressed. The last he saw of Dominic Cobb was the unshakeable version he left in the water, and despite Ariadne's calm assurances and stark belief in him, Arthur couldn't bring himself to be as positive.

He's heard about extractors before who delved too deeply, who lost their minds. Mal's concept of the totem helped somewhat in this case, but Arthur himself began to feel the confusion of realities. He touched his die as he thought of this. Cobb's been at it longer and through more layers. Arthur couldn't imagine keeping sanity stable for that long.

But a part of him, understood Cobb the man and Cobb the dreamer. Arthur had hope.

Subtly, Arthur loosened his grip on his armrests and gave a subtle look behind him towards Eames. The rogue looked a little worried, shooting a glance to his left, guiding Arthur to Ariadne's seat.

Her eyes were locked onto Dom, who was still sleeping.

* * *

It doesn't take long for things to fall back into how they were, despite their talk, despite the so-called air being cleared, weeks go by without them talking, and the weeks begin to accumulate into months. But it's almost a mutual silence this time, an agreed upon armistice.

She sends him a text, wishing him well over the holidays and he replies with a pithy "you too," but that's about it. She spends her holidays in London, Sybil invites her to a few parties, and Ariadne makes the rounds, even getting a number or two from a guy. She doesn't call them, despite being flattered.

She doesn't want to keep ties when she's leaving in two months.

She got the news, finishing up the flight of stairs to her flat. She picks it up, the phone in the crook of her ear as she listens. "Ms. Inman?" a quip voice asks. She verifies her identity. "We're so pleased to offer you the transfer position. Of course there will be a lot of small things to go over…"

She wonders if she should have told Arthur. She wanted them to be back being friends. She missed how they were before, but she started to understand him better. He wanted more or nothing it seemed, and Ariadne couldn't bring herself to it. She put herself out there before, always questioning if that was the right thing from the key, the date, the twelve-hour relationship. She never felt any encouragement from him, until now, when he began to question his own status. She felt like a consolation prize, so the latter it had to be then.

She has weeks to prepare the move this time around, rather than the rushed job she had before London, and maybe because of it, she feels better, more secure in this departure, and leaving Arthur, further and without his notice finalizes it.

While packing the rest of her flat, Ariadne will look at her phone, she'll scroll through the contacts wondering how she should breach everything, but the longer she takes, the harder it is for her to even try, until it eventually seems pointless.

They're friends, though. She left it on good terms. She takes comfort in that.

* * *

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose as he reads another e-mail. He lacks quite a few things. His references are a little dated for someone his age. He doesn't have any current contacts, nor does he have any current accomplishments that are strictly legal to boast of.

His former idealism feels tarnished after weeks of nothing to show for it.

Illegality can't be all that he's good for. He's a good worker, he knows. He's extremely detail oriented and on point. He gained a fine reputation in the con world, one that has insured a relaxing retirement in the future.

So he has time, he tells himself. Money isn't an issue at all.

Just boredom.

And Arthur is nothing if not thinking. He's nothing if not action.

* * *

"I'm going to ask Arthur to join me."

"He'll never go for it."

She ignores Eames' raised eyebrows in her direction as she grabs a wooden stirrer and a pack of sugar for her coffee at the edge of the counter. "What makes you say that darling?" he asks patiently at her elbow. She riles up at his careful question, reading into his tone. With a little more force than necessary, she hands him the creamer canteen, and the fact that he doesn't point this out or joke about it pushes her further.

Ariadne forces a shrug. "He's been living in Paris. He's settled down. I doubt he'd want to go back now," she replies, leading out of the coffee shop.

She holds the door for Eames and waits for him to meet her on the sidewalk. "You see, that's where I think you're wrong," he continues cheerfully, gesturing with his coffee container. "Our dear Arthur isn't made for domesticity or whatever it is Saito has him as a kept man."

"He's not a kept man," she insists, drinking through the sip top.

"He's not a traveling man," Eames argues with a sly look at her.

She lowers her cup down to consider him. "Are we going into a song? I honestly can't tell."

Eames continues without any acknowledgement. "Thing is, Ariadne. I think we both know that it's a waste for Arthur to just stay in Paris. He's good, too good, and I've had a couple of sweet jobs come my way because they want him on the case."

Ariadne begrudgingly accepts this explanation. "Okay Doctor Watson," she says with a roll of her eyes, a feeling of guilt and regret mingling in her stomach. "So they only want the packaged deal if Sherlock's with you?"

"Why am I Watson?" Eames asks. "I'm at least English."

Ariadne gleefully sips her drink, her eyes joking as she looks at him through the side of her eyes.

"But in all seriousness, dear," Eames says in a clipped fashion, "I wanted to tell you before I asked him."

Ariadne keeps her face blank as she feels her friend's eyes on her. The stomach emotions start to travel further, almost as if they're interested in her reaction too. "Why do you need to tell me anything?" she says, conscious of those emotions eavesdropping on her. "I'm not his keeper."

She sees how Eames remains delightfully tightlipped over the entire speech but says nothing. He takes a sip from his own coffee instead. "It's agreed then," he says, leading her down the block. "I'll call Arthur." His eyes linger on her again, and Ariadne

"Great," she comments a little surly. "Great talk."

Eames' eyes twinkle. "Like me to relay any messages?"

Ariadne considers this, before mirroring a similar tightlipped smile to her friend. "None whatsoever, Geoffrey."

Later that evening she mulls over it.

So this was it, essentially. A new number, a new country, and no new way to continue to contact him, and she can lose him completely. Sure she could try Miles or Cobb or even Eames, but they were all moving on. A part of her knows that her pride wouldn't be able to be so bold as ask anyway.

Her pride wouldn't let herself admit that to Eames today.

* * *

No one said anything to each other when Cobb woke up. Arthur felt his friend's eyes on him immediately, and he let an inward sigh of relief as Dominic Cobb grew conscious. He even laughed slightly for the panic he built in his head.

Arthur's mind whirled with the possibility of—he almost didn't allow himself to believe it, but Arthur was always pragmatic and covering all situations, good and bad, were part of his nature. He knew that if anything happened, he would be the one to tell Miles and Marie. He knew that he would be there for Pippa and James. He also knew that if his friend did wake up, he was going to slug him the first chance he got for putting him through this hell.

No one looked at each other when they got up to deplane. Arthur followed Ariadne out into the open airport. He felt exhausted but triumphant.

* * *

The weeks have gone by with not much success. Despite the offers of help from those willing, Arthur understands their small bit of reticence. No one's heard from him in years. He can't tell them what he's been doing either.

He reads the e-mails through, chats on the phone with his old professor. The old man thinks college would be worth another shot.

Worth a shot.

Arthur thinks about where that last shot got him.

* * *

"Arthur, to what do I owe the pleasure?" the Englishman asks with his usual jocular nature that tended to grate Arthur's nerves.

He hasn't heard from Eames in months actually, and this isn't peculiar, because they aren't the best of friends. They've worked together often, certainly, and despite the apparent disregard between the two men, Arthur understands Eames' loyalty. He's known the forger long enough to know that Eames' versed in helping a man out, even if it does mean Eames will gain something in return. They've passed jobs onto one another with almost begrudging respect before, and Arthur does have a sense of trust when it comes to him.

"I was just about to contact you actually," Eames continues, cutting into his thoughts.

"Eames," Arthur says with a heavy sigh as he leans forward onto his elbows in his seat. "I want a favor."

"Another coincidence," Eames says, and Arthur can hear the smile over the line. "I need one as well."

* * *

Ariadne looks around at her flat at the cardboard boxes she made and at the folded up cardboard boxes she will have to make. Everything's a mess, and she can only hope that this is the last time she does this. Back and forth. Forth and back. Is she insane to even commit a move again? She's done it before, but that was with Arthur's guidance, but even then, she had more of a hand in the plans. Here she trusted her new living arrangements to the new company, and even then, she had no idea what that would have in store for her.

She'd be back home, she realized. That wasn't something she thought she'd see soon since she left. She thought this move would be _the_ move for her, when in reality it was only a phase.

She thinks about Arthur. Eames remained silent over how his request went over, and rightfully so. She acted petulant, when she knew that Eames was trying to help, but she was over it. She knew she was.

She was coming to terms with the idea that they were sincerely done with one another. The mild efforts to even stay in one another's lives was just plain dead, and she started to understand that this important person in her life was really gone now. And he was gone because he wanted to be.

Despite his insistence that he was fine with their friendship, despite the apparent acceptance of her refusal for his advances, she felt the heartbreak all over again, a reminder that she was unwanted.

The renovations she and Sybil headed were almost done, everything in place and on schedule according to a schedule with extra days for unplanned events, which there were.

Sybil's extremely happy and proud of her move, hugging her to death when Ariadne tells her of the position, which Ariadne can't even come to consider. "That sounds amazing," Sybil enthused, holding Ariadne at arms length. "You've talked about going back before, this would be it."

"Yeah," Ariadne agreed a little more numbly. "It would be, but it would be different, since everything that has happened."

Sybil waved this off. "You'll be fine. It'll be home. Plus, they got the right person for the job."

Ariadne looked doubtful. "Let's hope so," she answered, looking over at her desk.

"Oh, Ariadne," Sybill said, and Ariadne's eyebrows rose. "I wanted to thank you for introducing me to your friend Tom. He's pretty amazing."

Ariadne rolled her eyes at this, remembering how she brought Tom to that party with Eames and the blueprints. She had a feeling that the two would hit it off. "He has his moments," she allowed. She looked back at the folders spread out over her desk. "Do you think everything will be ready for the opening?" she asked, and Sybil went back to business, talking over schedules and details and calls, and Ariadne felt herself exhale.

In her apartment on a weekend night, Ariadne settles amidst her cardboard house of stacked boxes. With a little more resolution, she weaves around the pile of already packed boxes and stoops to pick up the collapsed cardboard on the ground. One by one she props them up in a line for her to tape together.

And one bye one she adds her new address on the front with black felt tipped marker.

It'll be weird being back in the States. Back home.

* * *

Ariadne didn't turn around as she stepped away from Arthur at the departures board, letting go of their handshake.

Further and further, steps away from him, the job, and the dream, she remembered being impatient to see the after effects of it all. Just to see if it came out smoothly. She started to regret her impatience with it all.

She wasn't sure when she'd see any of these men again, because in reality, they wouldn't come together at all in the first place. They were one of those bar jokes where a con man, a grad student, a businessman, etc. walk into a bar. When she let go of Arthur's hand, realizing that she was inevitably saying good-bye to a friend who had been there for her since day one, she felt almost ashamed at her hurry.

Because, it just hit her that these amazing people weren't the type to have an online contact or to be open for free communication when she just felt like talking.

Least of all, the man she held hands with just now.

Walking away, she flexed her hand, balling it up as if to physically contain it, remembering the sensation of contact.

* * *

Arthur looks around at his empty apartment. The packed boxes. The clean floor. The couch.

He did debate whether he should keep this place. For nostalgia if anything, but he decides against it. He wants a fresh beginning that he's made himself. Keeping this place that he never necessarily made himself seems wrong. He wants to do it on his own this time.

On his desk are papers, folders, and a few books. On his laptop screen are the marks Eames briefed him on. He has a lot to catch up on, he knows, but he also has the time and the mind for calculation to accomplish this. He taps lightly on the waiting books he needs to start reading later. He figures he can save those for the flight over and still have enough time to give Eames the information and contacts he would need first.

He tells Cobb of his plans, and Cobb is enthusiastic over it all, handing over connections, telling him advice, and offering any help he can to these ideas.

In a tentative way, Cobb even brings up Ariadne once, asking about her or if Arthur ever heard from her recently.

"No," Arthur admits a little reluctantly. He never told Cobb about the visit to London, and Cobb doesn't linger on the subject either. He congratulates Arthur on getting back to work, and Arthur can't help but feel comfortable in Cobb's profound interest and support.

* * *

Eames propped himself on Arthur's desk and looked down at the point man busily typing away on his laptop. "Arthur, mate," he began, and Arthur held his fingers poised over the keys, not even bothering to look at the forger as he spoke. "I've promised Ariadne that we would see her for lunch."

At her name, Arthur looked up at him. "What are you talking about Mr. Eames?"

Eames shrugged. "I've promised her lunch. Well, dinner and a few meals that I've missed, but I promised I would stick to this one," he explained. "But apparently I missed out on the past shareholder meeting I needed to sit in on. Daly was there, so boss isn't too happy with my—"

Arthur shook his head and went back to typing. "You had one job, Mr. Eames."

"It's Paris," Eames replied in a what-can-you-do manner. "I'm not allowed to enjoy the city?"

"Once you get your homework done," Arthur replied noncommittally.

"Who does homework in Paris?"

Arthur didn't miss a beat as replies in a flat, bored tone, "Parisian school children, people of the Sorbonne, Madeleine…"

Eames smiled. "I do believe you just made a joke, darling."

Arthur stopped everything he was doing and looked up at him, almost as if the lighthearted moment hadn't just happened. "What is it you need from me, Mr. Eames?"

Eames looked slightly uncomfortable as he scratched his chin, his mouth twisted slightly with chagrin. "Thing is, I called Ariadne when we arrived, and I've skipped out on all of the meals I promised to meet with her—"

Arthur felt impatient. "So you want me to…"

"She'll be waiting for me. We talked about a place near the Seine." Eames went on to describe the streets. "I told her I'd take you with me."

"Because you knew you'd flake out on her?" he asked dubiously.

"To make up for the past," he offered lamely. "You remember her, Arthur. You can't forget a girl who folded Paris in half."

"We weren't there, Mr. Eames. Besides," he went on, turning back to his computer. "If she wanted me there, she would've just asked."

He felt Eames' eyes on him as he went back to typing. "You don't always need a dammed filigree invitation mate," Eames said in wonder. "Sometimes, you should make the call yourself."

And Arthur didn't look up at this scathing remark, but he heard Eames scoff. "It's Ariadne," he said, getting up, off the desk. "She wouldn't care anyway. She'd want to see us."

Ariadne. The girl who folded Paris in half. The girl he tricked a kiss out of. That was months ago. Odd how they found their way back to her city.

The rule was no contact from any of them for a few months at least—Eames and Arthur excluded themselves because of their professional experience, of course—if only to be on the safe side for this particular experience, but even so it seemed almost just a natural way of life. The job was done. Successful too. There was no need for anything more.

And yet, when Cobb called him about Ariadne shortly after the Fischer job, Arthur felt himself jump on this thread of contact.

"She wants to keep going," Cobb said a little wearily.

"You said she would," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah, but I figured the experience alone would be enough." Arthur thought back to the months of reconnaissance, the time spent within close proximity of one another. Leaning over blue prints. Walking away from the warehouse to discuss logistics. "She ended up in Limbo," Cobb continued. "She saw the uglier side of shared dreaming. She shouldn't want to go back."

Arthur realized that he followed the wrong line of thinking and brought himself quickly up to Cobb's. "You forget she's a creator, like you," he pointed out.

There was an unspoken acknowledgement to that as Cobb paused. "I've stopped talking to her," he said suddenly. "It's for her own good, shutting her off. I don't want her to make the same mistakes as me."

"You're only making it worst, making her crave it more," Arthur replied.

Cobb was again silent for a few moments, before he sighed into the phone. "I forget that you and her were close."

He saw his laced-up leather oxfords, felt his hands in his pockets, heard her voice talking about home, back when they worked together. He shook his head to escape the memory. "Yeah," he said casually, as if he forgot himself.

"So what do you suggest I do?"

Arthur saw Ariadne roll her eyes at Eames' overt compliments early on in their working together. He saw her ease Saito into conversation just by sitting next to him during lunch. He saw her approach Yusuf with tamed eagerness as she asked questions about what he did back in Mombasa. "Wait for her," Arthur suggested. "Offer to talk about it after she's finished at the college, at least by then, some sense will come to her."

"And what if she doesn't agree?"

Arthur saw her in the warehouse, watching Cobb through the sides of her eyes. He noticed her questions over the extractor's history. "She'll agree," Arthur said.

He heard his old friend exhale, imagined him pinching the gap between his eyebrows. "You better be right about this, Arthur."

"I am."

Arthur looked up from his desk to see that Eames was eight feet away, closer to the door. Arthur stopped, his conscience heavy as his fingers stopped tapping. "Fine, Mr. Eames." He saw Eames stopped, barely looking at him over his shoulder. "I'll be there."

* * *

"So you're not going to say anything?" Liz asks. "Just get up and go and not say anything?"

Arthur smiles, scoffs, then tries to speak again, before failing miserably. "Look, Liz, I don't think that this has anything to do with—you yourself questioned whether I should even say anything to her—"

"Arthur, I just met the girl. I didn't know a lot about what was going on, and, yes, while she was upset at you and really, really resolved to just leave it there, I can't help but think that this is just—"

"It's really okay, Liz. We figured it all out between us. I'm not going to push myself onto someone, when all she wants is friendship."

"But not even tell her? From what I understand, she was tired of waiting for you to settle and you're going off again?"

"I changed jobs, Liz. I moved to a city. I bought a couch. What more did she need to ask me to stay?"

"That's the thing, Arthur," she said, her voice calmer than her previous heightened tone. "You were supposed to ask her to too. It's admirable that you want what's best for her, but sometimes, you're so stupidly selfless, that you can't see that that's all she wanted."

* * *

Ariadne stands a little impatiently outside the pub, pacing in an effort to not look suspicious or pathetic as Eames is thirty minutes late. She's actually pretty used to this. The Englishman is notorious for his impetuousness, which she calls untimely, though he has gotten better as of late, maybe because he actually respects her or maybe because he enjoys her witty repartee or maybe because he likes her dinner choices so far.

Yeah, it's probably that.

Ariadne leans against the brick front, away from the standing smokers, and looks at her mobile again for the time. He usually calls with a good reason, and Ariadne allows herself to feel charmed by his words and settles into the bar to wait patiently, sipping cocktails until he arrives. But this is different.

For one, it's damp. The air is moist and unforgiving to her hair as she stands there, her breath coming out in small puffs. It just rained, and Ariadne hopes that it's done for the night, seeing as she's still stuck outside waiting for him.

Secondly, it's their good-bye dinner. Eames is off to the Philippines in the next day and she will be gone in two weeks. They made these plans a week ago to ensure that it would actually happen, and she's made sure to remind him often.

Ariadne rests her head against the brick wall and stares up in exasperation, puffing her breath to flounce some of her hair form her face. He would do this to her. Eames, despite his best intentions, has a tendency to do this to her, because if there was one thing she learned from Arthur, it was the unreliability of these conmen. She couldn't count on them for anything.

Not in friendship. Not in relationship. Not in dinner plans.

Perhaps, she should get different friends. Perhaps she should just leave. Perhaps she should stop feeling sorry for herself.

Ariadne scoffs at her line of thinking and straightens up, looking warily down one side of the sidewalk, then the other, before she decides to open her mobile. She scrolls through the contacts a little miffed, finding the proper name before opening a blank message, acting quickly to let her emotions act out before sense kicks in.

_I'm leaving England in two weeks. I'm sorry we didn't get to see one another. I'm sorry we didn't get to say good-bye. I'm also sorry that I'm telling you this in text message, but I know you're leaving soon too. Eames told me._

Ariadne does a quick survey for grammatical errors before sending it off. She leans back onto the wall, mind and heart racing against one another, hardly looking back at what she just did. She picks up her mobile again, holding it close to her ear and taking out her anger by squeezing it to death. She dials.

"Eames," she says, exasperated. "You better come around. Sure it's charming and you make everything better with your accent, but you better be sick or dying or kidnapped because—"

"Ariadne?"

And she swivels on her ankle to face him, that voice already known to her. "Arthur?" She still holds her mobile in her hands. She grimaces. "We're talking later," she says, before shutting it off.

She hesitates only slightly, looking at her phone, then him, before she reaches over and hugs him on the shining wet sidewalk. Behind her, she was vaguely aware of the slush of water as cars drove by. "What are you doing here?" she asks, taking a step back.

Arthur shrugs. "Visiting? The mushy peas really have a draw."

And Ariadne takes a step towards him without thinking and throws her arms over his shoulder. "You're terrible," she says, pressing herself to him as if time and self-consciousness wasn't an issue.

"I like to think of myself as charming," he says, relishing the feel of her arms around his neck. He rests his arms around her back and squeezes her tightly, taking in the cold, fresh smell of her.

"Yeah, well you're also late," she says into his shoulder, burying her face into his shoulder.

"Eames," he says by way of explanation.

"Eames," she accepts on tiptoes, arms wound around him, not letting go.

In the pub, they sit and talk, it's almost like old times, except that they aren't in Paris, Arthur didn't just drop by, and Ariadne isn't worrying about life. It's odd how she can put everything on the back burner. Be happy for him. Be happy for herself, when she's spent so much time worrying over it.

It's easy and she begins to hanker for this discussion, despite it actually happening at the moment. He knows her well, she remembers, even despite the separation or maybe because of it.

Unintentionally, she remembers the good times. She remembers him passing out on her bed after walking through Paris, his Italian lace ups kicked off in a very unlike Arthur fashion. His eyes sleepily closed as she laid right next him, on her back, looking over her shoulder at him. He was on his stomach, hugging one of her best pillows, his voice starting to dwindle in zeal as the sun reached through her windows lazily.

She watched him close his eyes and attempt to keep them open, and she laughed at his stubborn insistence that he was just "thinking with his eyes close."

"Really?" she asked. "Then what was I saying?"

Arthur tried to open his eyes again. "You said," he began, mustering up weak confidence, but then he ultimately gave up, apologizing lamely. He closed his eyes again, and Ariadne waited to see if he decided to prove her wrong.

In the pub, across the small, sturdy wooden table, she's smiling.

He stops, apparently mid-sentence. "What?"

She attempts to clear her face of expression, but she can feel that she's failing. "What?" she repeats, yet another futile attempt to hide her expression.

"You're looking at me like you're going to murder me," he says, taking a sip of water.

Ariadne attempts to frown. This too fails miserably. As if to distract herself, she reaches for her glass as well. "No I'm not. I'm smiling at you like it's good to see you."

Arthur keeps his glass poised at his lips. "Was your smile always this—"

She places hers back down. "Alluring?" she suggests with a slight purr. "Yes. I do believe it was."

"Jarring?" he decides, sipping his glass.

Ariadne rolls her eyes and looks chagrinned. This is easy. This talk is an easy give and take, lighthearted in the forced fact that they are each purposefully sidestepping away from anything that might lead down a more substantial path. The good stuff really.

It is a battle of wits because both of them are trying to show how completely "over" it he or she really is. Ariadne, stubborn and self-admittedly so, realizes what she's doing, but she doesn't want to lose this, and the fact that she sees it this way undercuts everything she felt so sure of before.

She thought she could do this. She comforted herself with the fact that this was all done, but she feels that tumbling sensation in her gut, laughing at her. She smiles, slightly less sweetly than before. "I'm going to pretend that you spent the first ten minutes of our reunion, complimenting me."

Across from her, Arthur appears less uncertain and easier in this give and take. It unnerves her further. "You can, but what good will that do you?"

"For my memory bank." She points at her temple with a hard nudge. "I'll have it that way as a fond memory."

Arthur laughs, which startles her slightly. "We can always extract the truth from you, if it comes to it."

"Yeah, or we can incept the idea that it really did happen that way, but that's just a waste of your time and resources."

Arthur shakes his head slightly. "Nah, it would be like a training exercise, especially since I haven't done it in over." He stops to count. "Two years? Has it really been that long since I stopped extracting?"

Ariadne nods, carefully aware of this tread of conversation. "Do you miss it?" she asks, peeking at him.

Arthur looks thoughtful but hardly hesitates when he replies with a wave of his head side to side as it to debate it physically. "Yes and no."

"What's the yes?" she prompts.

"I miss being able to influence my surroundings, to live a rush, to be able to take apart a plan and react immediately to the situation."

"And the no?" she braves to ask.

Arthur doesn't hesitate when he answers. "I don't miss being no one, having to keep moving, not being able to have anything substantial or sedentary."

Ariadne shifts in her seat. "I wouldn't miss that either."

They're silent for a moment as she considers his answer. "I don't miss being no one." The statement has a hollow echo, suggesting nights of consideration, suggesting times without her. She doesn't say anything at first, wondering at what Arthur exactly expected this meeting to be. He wanted this. He was the one who used Eames to suggest dinner here. She didn't have time to mentally over think this entire episode. She didn't have time to find something suitable to wear. Her hair was frizzy thanks to the outside. And this is the fifth time she's worn these jeans, because everything else she has is packed.

But here they were, and she couldn't hide the smile always coming to surface at her lips. He made a step, more than a text or an e-mail or even a flyaway phone call. She can understand why her heart's starting to work against her resolve. She can feel her anxiety and her condemnation war with each other, and she doesn't like the uncertainty of all of this.

"Arthur," Ariadne starts, a little heedlessly. "I want to apologize—"

Arthur's face slightly falls at this unpromising beginning. "Ariadne." His voice is placating and she jumps to her defense, her conscience telling her to not let this go out easy.

"No really!" she starts, then stops at Arthur's darkening features. It's not angry, per se, but she can see his features school themselves into a properly blank state. It's like watching a garage door slide closed after you saw your neighbor's really nice car. You wonder why they don't drive that thing around more often.

"Ariadne," he says, stopping her. "I didn't come here to dwell on the past. It's already done."

"I know but—"

"I know that you wouldn't say things, unless you thought about it. And I respect that. But I didn't come here to focus on that. It's already done. I just came here because I missed my friend and wanted mushy peas."

Ariadne debates whether to start over again and then decides against it. She smiles. "You never ordered any."

"Really?"

"So it's really just because you missed me," she says lightly, watching him carefully for his response.

Arthur looks around, shrugs, and meets her eyes, conceding the point entirely. "Yeah. Yeah it is."

* * *

The attraction to her was undeniable. Her smiles. Her stories. Her manner. She was infectious, influencing him all over again in a way that he couldn't admit to. He wondered at Eames' lack of initiative to see her again as they walked down a street in search of a place to eat.

Then again, he wondered at his own.

"It's the city of lights," she pointed out for the umpteenth time again, this time cheekily gesturing towards a lamp store.

"I've already succeeded the point," he said, mock-exasperated as they passed yet another full café of enticing smells. "Can you please just pick a place to eat already?"

"You're very grumpy," she said.

"I'm very hungry," he insisted.

"We're almost there." She lead him down a cobblestoned side street. "What happens in dreams when you're hungry?" she asked carelessly, perhaps to distract him. "I mean, when Yusuf drank too much champagne, it rained—"

"Earthquakes."

She turned to him, wide-eyed. "Really?"

"Murder too," he added as an afterthought. At her stunned expression, he continued without hesitation. "When you're that hungry, you're ready to kill yourself to get back to some real food."

He looked at her to judge her reaction. Her face broke into a smile. "We're almost there."

"We better be."

* * *

_**A/N:** Big news, kids! I moved to New York, which explains this post being posted later than intended. I'm back on track now, and I will post the next chapter this week. Also, big thanks to Laura-x, Nina.4444, PrincessVamp, and FudgeFanatic for their kind reviews for Chapter 9. If you're wondering, there's one chapter left and an epilogue I'm toying with. Thank you everyone who followed or favorited too!_

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	11. Chapter 11

"Eames told me about your project, and I wanted to see it," Arthur says, fork poised to his lips.

She takes a moment to register this. "Yeah, sure. Sure. We'd have to take the tube really. But we can go after." She bites her food, using the time to consider another point. "So what have you been up to?" she hedges, and Arthur picks up on her reluctance at the question, as if she's worried at the answer.

He hesitates, and Ariadne wants to hit her forehead at this reaction. Of course. "I'm sorry." She decides to save him the trouble and picks up on his reluctance: "It's fine," she quips, understanding, her fork touching her food. "No plans. We won't talk about any of it at all." She waves her hands above their food as if to clear the table of it.

Arthur smiles, hardly. She perks up when she sees his dimples. "No future, no dwelling on the past? What's left to talk about then?" he asks.

Ariadne purses her lips to think, before shrugging, "Seen any good movies lately?"

* * *

The tube's slightly crowded when they enter, and Arthur secures her a seat as he hangs onto the metal railing above her.

"You can have the seat, you know," she objects as Arthur guides her to the vacant spot. "I'm a big girl. I've been standing for a while."

He smiles, his arm outstretched, fingers grasping the pole above their heads, when he leans down slightly. "I doubt you could even reach," he teases near her ear, and Ariadne fumes slightly, at the effect of his breath on her cheek. He's not _that_ tall. She forces herself to take this as a grain of salt, hoping that the heat she feels coming over doesn't show on her face.

Then he laughs, standing up straight again and adjusting his stance so that his body faces her fully. Her head is at eyelevel with his stomach, and she looks away, feeling slightly embarrassed.

The train jostles and spurts in movement, screeching at stops to pick up new passengers, and Arthur adjusts his stance as more people crowd around. His feet, once in contra posto, are now pointed at her, and his legs, once spread out for stability, begin to close around her knees. His right leg, her left knee, his left leg, her right knee. When the train moves, he can't help but touch her, and Ariadne tries to pull herself closer to her seat.

She wonders if he's self-conscious over this contact, and she peers at him to see, but Arthur's clueless or comfortable, looking at the train map above his head, studying the stops and listening attentively as the kind voice overhead announces their stops.

Ariadne frowns at herself. She shouldn't be thinking this way, about him after what she said, especially, and she's unsure how to play off this sudden want. Her legs tingle at the mere closeness of him. She wants to look at his expression to see if he feels it too.

She realizes that he's speaking to her.

"Oh." She grounds herself, the sound of his voice in her ears over the tracks. "I gave up on watching it," she says in answer to his question. "They killed my favorite character."

Arthur's aghast. "What?" He grips the pole. Oh you have to finish. It's so good."

"What? I bawled my eyes out at that episode. I can't go back now," she insists, remembering when he first made her watch it as a way to keep talking to one another: over the phone line with time zones in mind, calculating when to press play on their players simultaneously.

"How can you start something and not finish it?" he demands as the tube doors open behind him. People start to shift around, and Arthur takes a slight step back to allow Ariadne through. She stands up, her knees bent slightly so she won't invade his personal space, though she already is. With a few adept moves, she slides past him, starting out, merging into the wave of people rushing out on the platform. "You have to at least see it through," he says, rushing beside her.

There's no room for conversation as they walk through the tiled corridor to the stairs, and Ariadne lingers on that small lecture, smiling as she continues to talk about the show. Arthur pressures her into a promise to keep watching. "At least the next one. You'll see," he says, enthusiastically, climbing the stairs next to her.

Ariadne looks at him through the edge of her vision, she smiles slightly, before she gives in, leading him up to the surface.

* * *

Arthur walked Ariadne to her door, and she looked up at the building. "This is me."

"I've been here before, Ariadne," he reminded her lightly, his eyes squinting into a smile.

"Right. To yell at me," she said a little slowly, joking.

"To persuade you to stay," he corrected.

"And miss out on all of the adventure?"

He nodded in understanding. "That should've been my first clue."

Arthur looked at her smiling face, wondering if this was where he should leave her. He liked her, sure. She wormed his way into his conscience, and her big brown eyes, her stubborn questions popped into his head more than he'd like to admit. But he also knew that she wasn't made for something like this. The compromise was made because he sided with Cobb but respected her feelings. When she graduated, he'd see how she felt about joining this lifestyle, but for now, he wanted her to enjoy something so simple like being able to walk home everyday, having friends in one place, being able to sit at the same seat in the same café and have the same waiter bring you coffee because of how often you go there.

He wanted her to enjoy the life he wanted.

She took a few tentative steps away from him to her steps. "Arthur?"

"Ariadne?"

She appeared adorably bashful when his eyes locked onto hers. "I honestly thought that we weren't going to see each other again, ever," she said with a little difficulty.

Arthur understood. "If I'm honest, me too." He also hoped it wouldn't, but he didn't say so.

She looked thoughtful. "But I'm glad we did," she decided.

"Yeah," he had to agree. "Me too."

"Arthur?"

He lifted his eyebrows as a response.

She stood five feet away from him. "Good night," she decided.

He smiled at the sentiment. "Good night, Ariadne," he said, watching as she took the eight steps up her building and went inside.

* * *

They sit on a stone bench in a quiet courtyard, looking at a wall with clean shapes and lined with windows. From how she speaks, he can tell that she loves these south-facing windows over the calm courtyard, the slight arch of the doorway that led into the adjoining gallery, even the doorway to the restrooms.

From where they sit outside, he can see how people fill up the space, dressed in cocktail outfits, talking, sipping champagne, laughing, even pointing at some of the newer design elements. He watches as she puffs with pride at that.

He sits next to her quietly, taking it all in, as she points out her baby, sharing stories over small arguments as far as time and commitment with her partner or the client, and he listens, taking in her voice, this ease, this sense of comfort in just sitting next to her.

Arthur weighs it in his mind, almost a little reluctantly, because a part of him tells him to just enjoy this, to mull in her presence without expectation or study. Stupidly, he sort of thought that he could get away with just talking to her, falling into the same footing as before.

He thought he could go through the whole night leaving it at this night. Closure was what he wanted, but he's starting to think of how weak that reasoning was just to come see her. The idea of just wanting to see her, the tease of possibly everything coming out was there, he has to admit. He just thought that he would be able to see her for this last time and leave with a better memory than the last. He wanted to keep his plans to himself really, but with her here, so close, he truly can't kid himself anymore.

There were signs of her everywhere in this small building, and he recalls her design process on the inception job, as she calmly explains the choice in materials, her partner Sybil.

"It's beautiful, Ariadne," Arthur compliments, sensing that familiar tingling in the pit of his stomach as he looks at her. He knows what it is, but he wrenches it down.

He's leaving tomorrow.

Ariadne tilts her head and glows with pride. "It's small."

He shrugs over this and admires it all the more. "Still. It's real, and it serves more utility to more people."

Ariadne agrees freely at this shared allusion, sipping her champagne. "I like to think so." She turns to him after a moment. "I thought we saw the last of each other," she admits.

"I thought so too," he agrees. "Unresolved issues and what not."

Ariadne laughs at this. "Everything about you is unresolved issues and you don't mind leaving what nots around," she points out. Arthur doesn't dispute this, and she curls her legs under her as they sit, looking in front of them.

Unintentionally, she waits for him to talk about his new job he's taking. She wonders if he saw her text, but he doesn't seem upset or suggestive in any of his comments towards her. She waits for him to say, maybe, but she doesn't expect anything. She knows that she lost that right months ago.

"Where are you staying?" she asks, suddenly, uncurling her legs to rest back onto the ground.

Arthur looks perplexed, then shrugs. He looks at the street they just walked. "Hotel a few blocks from here, I think."

Ariadne stretches out, before standing. "Let's get a drink."

* * *

Ariadne made her way down the lecture hall steps, past her remaining classmates bent over their own exams. She checked her answer sheet for stray marks and shuffles her essay in order as she walks down, her boots slightly hollow against the aged wood.

It was all very unnecessary. She had done this walk thousands of times, and this was just a thousand and one. Granted it was her last one, and she relished the moment, almost unsure if this sincerely was it, because of how almost mundane it all felt. Movies usually made this moment feel, well, momentous, with building 80's music, and perhaps a freeze frame. Instead, there was just the scrape of her shoes on the floor, the slight cough from a classmate still working, and the slight rustle of paper here and there.

Miles sat at his desk in his usual crouch, grading papers from what appeared to be another class, when she interrupted him.

"Ms. Inman?" he asked, his eyebrows rose, and she handed over her sheets, separating them, as he would want. He thanked her for them, then looked down again towards his work.

Ariadne stood by a second longer, prompting Miles to look up. "I wanted to thank you," she whispered, feeling her face heat up slightly. "For the class and for everything," she said a little haphazardly. There was more. She felt the appreciation down to her toes, but Ariadne stumbled on her own thoughts and gestures, but Miles' reassuring smile put her at ease.

He stretched his hand out, and Ariadne took it. "It was a pleasure having you in class, Ms. Inman, and I am glad that you had the opportunity to gain as much as experience as you have."

He gave her hand a slight squeeze at that, and they shook.

The door behind her was loud and resounded in the wood and stone hallway.

She was done.

* * *

The bar's closed when they come in.

"English hours," Ariadne huffs with stubborn realization. "I forget that."

They stand there looking dumbly at the darkened cavern where the bar is, almost as if willing for something exciting to happen. Arthur doesn't turn his head when he asks, "Mini bar?"

She doesn't flinch when she responds, a part of her not wanting this, whatever this was, to be done. "Sure."

* * *

Ariadne doesn't know what she expects from tonight, but she feels the familiar prickles in her hands as she stands next to him in the elevator, as she watches him open his hotel room door, as she sits on his bed, and as he tosses the entire contents of the mini-fridge at her.

She extends her fingers, flexing them in a familiar way as she sits against the headboard. She takes a swig from the small bottle to release the tension.

Ariadne sits on his bed, a small bottle of whiskey in her hands, a bag of Walkers in her lap. It's very reminiscent of their faux-date, and Ariadne shoves that memory away as she sits up. "Can I break a rule?" she asks, looking at him.

He shrugs. He sits turned to her, though he sits on the edge of the bed, a bottle of water in his hands. "It depends on how," he says thoughtfully.

Ariadne continues a little timidly. "Can I just apologize for everything I said the last time when you and Liz were here?" she asks.

Arthur's still light and teasing. "Does that count or would you like to put your question in the form of a statement?"

"No, really, Arthur." She crawls over the mattress to him. She mirrors his seated position. "I am really sorry about it."

"I know."

"I meant it at the time, and I know that you're better than that treatment. And it was just selfish of me to push you away, when you were always there for me."

Arthur thinks about how her words hit him before. Anger, hurt, defeat, those feelings swam in his head, for him to pull out and consider until he could palate each and every one with reasonable deliberation. In his darkest moments, he resigned himself to outward anger towards her. In his most considerate, he understood her. "Actually, it was almost a good thing that you talked to me like that."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"You were right. I did want you to feel like I fixed some things in my life, and that wasn't fair to you or to whatever we were. I used you before to pretend that I had stability, pretending that Paris was a home, when really I was just thinking that you'd wait for me, no questions asked."

"I should've," she's quick to say.

"No, you shouldn't have," he's just as quick to correct. "We never really talked about it, before, and I would leave you alone, stop talking to you, always with this hubristic idea that you'd be waiting for me anyway." He laughs at his past, selfish self. This past self that always saw Ariadne as this static location, the same as he saw his family. But he was wrong to do that.

Every time he saw Sam, he was taller, more eloquent, bolder, a growing reminder of missed opportunity and lax action on his part. Easily, he felt that those that loved him would still be there, but even then it was unfair to ask all of them to conform to his standard of living, a standard he himself knew was wrong: never investing or connecting with those people, keeping them thousands of arms' length away, and feeling like he made a difference just by the attempts to keep contact.

The sheer desire to want to keep talking to Ariadne made him realize that he could.

She sits thoughtfully next to him. "I'm still sorry I said it."

"Only because we stopped talking," he points out.

And he's surprised by her frankness when she admits, "Actually yes."

"Really?"

"Yes." He watches her sit properly next to him on the side of the bed. Her feet hang over the mattress edge. Their knees are inches apart, but his awareness stinging, like it was in the train. He wondered if she felt it too. That her presence made him more self-conscious. That her nearness was invigorating. Arthur knew he had it under control, but he also knew what denial looked like. "You're one of the most important people in my life," she says, "and I pushed you away. I should've just talked to you about it, rather than asked you to leave me alone."

"You know?" he asks, surprised himself by this. "That's really all I wanted."

"To leave me alone?" she jokes.

"For you to tell me to stay," he exhales all at once. And his chest feels lighter at that. He's quick to see how she takes this, feeling exposed and honest and damn good. He watches as her eyes sparkle with amusement and as her lips purse because she's biting the inside of her cheek in thought.

"Because giving you keys to my apartment wasn't enough?" He can tell that what she's saying is light and joking, and he doesn't mind the jibe at this. "No, but that was stupid," Ariadne says, deadpanned. "You were welcome to all along."

"Yeah, well," he goes on, carrying the lightheartedness, "someone recently told me that she didn't want to have anything to do with me," he teases.

"I believe that someone said that she wanted to be friends, old chap."

He levels a look at her. "I think we both knew that that wasn't true." And her smile falters slightly, her face consciously blank as he reaches over, holding her hand, almost considering this move. He hears her slight intake of breath as he closes the space between them. He feels her eyes on him, her body tense.

He closes the gap to kiss her, his lips familiarly light on hers, testing her reaction and savoring the moment. He backs away for a second to see how she takes it, his fingers dragging themselves out of her grasp.

She's smiling as she inclines her head towards his, disallowing that gap of space to grow, and his other hand glides lightly up her thigh, sending a tingle down her spine. Her own hand inches forward towards him, but before she reaches for him, properly, he pulls away. Their hands still coupling on her lap. "I really thought I could persuade you," he says, and Ariadne blinks, a little sigh escaping her mouth.

She smiles, forging her body towards him, her other arm wrapping around his neck to drag him closer. There's a hum of connection as she pulls him close. He feels her fingers grasps his. "Tease," she chides, bringing her mouth to his, unable to flatten her smile on her face. It's the type of kiss where teeth collide, and through the fervor and surprise, she wonders why they never did this more often.

They let go of one another's hands, and Ariadne feels his fingers begin to play up her sides. She can't hide her grin properly as Arthur bends them both down against the mattress, leading her up, up towards the pillows. She reaches for him again, laughing as he jokingly lifts his eyebrows at her.

"Just go with it," she advises, arching herself to kiss him again, and he reciprocates, his body falling onto hers, pinning her into the mattress properly, greedily.

* * *

He woke up next to her often in the warehouse. He remembered opening her eyes, looking across the way, and there she sat the tubing connecting them all together.

"Spot on your face, I think," Eames would say from where his chair was positioned behind them. His tone holding that gleeful, knowing tease that bothered Arthur so much, and Arthur would scowl and look away as Ariadne laughed, plucking out the tubing and needle with expert hands.

Arthur woke up alone that morning. He got out of his bed, an unfamiliar, generic mattress dressed with a thousand-thread count, fluffy pillows, and the smell of hotel decadence. It took him a few minutes to start climbing out and to make his way to the bathroom, his hands running across his disheveled hair as he did so.

He picked up the paper outside his hotel room door and reads about Fischer's latest business strategy and Browning's continuous attempts to recover. It's the only sign that they accomplished that job. He saw reminders of it often on the news.

Fischer and Browning were the only ones he could keep track of months after the job, and as if they gave him a connection back to the team, and yes to a certain architect, he read the knews, always wondering what they thought of it all.

He started to talk himself out of doing it, though. He had more to do, more to forge forward with. He needed to keep going, because Arthur wasn't one to live in the past or think of the what-if.

* * *

She wakes up next to him. She shifts on the mattress to face the edge of the bed, debating whether to sneak away or not, but a perfunctory hand under the sheet and on her thigh prevents her. She blushes at the sheer stark contact of his fingers along her skin, and she gathers the sheet more securely over her chest as she turns to face him. As she does so, his hand sweeps to her waist.

His eyes are open. "Hey creepy," she greets, cheerfully as if she wasn't just contemplating getting up.

"You were going to leave," he accuses lightly. She doesn't give him enough credit sometimes.

"I was debating it," she admits.

His hand rests more firmly, pulling her towards him. "And what did you decide?" he asks, the arch at the edge of his eyebrow meaning that he's not angry but conversational, just teasing.

Ariadne chews the inside of her cheek in thought. "That it would be awfully difficult to leave when held hostage," she says, looking down the sheet where his fingers rove up her hip.

"It was preemptive," he reassures her, resting his lips onto her forehead, before sweeping down towards the point between her eyebrows, her cheek, her lips. His mouth slides along hers.

She allows it, assumes it, reaching for his face to hold in between her hands, and she feels his hand roams over her hip and higher. Gently, he maneuvers them, so she's on her back.

She pulls herself away slightly, which really doesn't deter him. He easily finds a place along her cheek, under her chin, making it difficult to talk. She presses a firm hand onto his chest. "Arthur, I should tell you," she gasps, attempting to scoot away from him.

"You're leaving?" he asks, moving to her collarbone. "I saw your text."

Ariadne has a foggy idea of her text, especially as Arthur continues to explore her skin, but whatever will she has pushes its way up and through her arm. Her resistance must register then, because Arthur pulls slightly away, and Ariadne finds herself wanting those centimeters back. "You weren't going to tell me," he says like a point of fact. She wasn't going to tell him, and her previous reasoning sounds petty to her own saturated mind.

She debated it before, but "I wasn't sure if I should," she admits. His eyes burn into her, and she feels her face heat up. "But I did." That attachment feels hollow to her own ears and she bites the inside of her cheek as she watches Arthur register her words, leaning on his hands, hovering above her.

"Because you were tired of waiting for Eames," she hears and she feels waves of regret come over her.

"Because I realized that you both were leaving and that it could possibly be a forever deal. You're not the easiest person to find again, Arthur." She relies on the truth, she decides, and as her words come to her she feels surer of her previous resolve.

"You could've told me sooner."

"You could've told me that you took Eames' job," she poses back, not in retaliation but almost like a tit for tat discussion.

Arthur doesn't say anything else.

Ariadne tucks her lips in, licking them, and sits up onto her elbows. Arthur rolls off of her and onto his back. "You once said that you sent me the postcards because you had no one to send them to," she says a little quietly, looking down at him. She grasps the sheet over her chest.

Arthur's expression looks uncomfortable as he considers the ceiling. "It's true, I didn't." When she doesn't go along with his laugh. He looks up at her. "I don't have any outside connections. But I knew that I wanted someone who knew where I was coming from, and who I could turn to, even if it was to write something so silly like a postcard. And, if I'm honest, I knew that I wanted to keep talking to you. And I knew that you'd like it."

"Oh the gall!" she says with an exaggerated pull on the last word, plopping down onto her pillow, and just like that they're buoyant again.

"When were you going to tell me that you were leaving?" he asks, and that threat comes back. She turns to him.

"When were you going to tell me that _you_ were leaving?" she poses as if she's teasing him.

"Probably after you did," he says with the same light candor.

She laughs. "Liar."

"You forget that tracking people is what I do for a living," he explains, and Ariadne nods.

"Yeah, I never realized how creepy that is actually."

"What are you talking about?" he asks, smiling. "You point it out a lot. I don't think you'd let me forget it."

She laughs, feeling his arm coming around her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

"So what is this?" he asks, his fingers twisting in her loose hair.

"Apparently, we've learned our lesson," she says smartly, reveling in the small action of his hands.

"We're not leaving this bed, until we figure it out," he replies, and his hands stop that delicious movement.

"I'm fine with that, actually," she says, winding her arms around him, bringing her body towards his.

He sighs, forcing himself to deflect the light touches of her fingertips against his skin. "Ariadne."

"We're both leaving," she says, into his neck. "We're wasting time debating this."

He thinks back to Cobb's advice. When never happens.

But, she has a point.

* * *

"You're smiling."

"Excuse me, Mr. Eames?"

Arthur looks up from his seat at the wooden table, where his laptop lays open in front of him. He's near a small, open window with a lush view of Manila, or rather the tropical forest past the bustling dirt streets.

He arrived a week ago, and with rusty aplomb, he begins the plans with Eames and this new head extractor, he adjusts his body to the time zone, he does reconnaissance, studies the mark and contacts a few chemists in the area to get the compound required. He's back in action. He feels comfortable and his instincts come back over time as they train and prepare.

Eames is his usual lackadaisical self, exploring the city, annoying Arthur, and admiring himself in the mirror. Well, this may be him actually working to mimic so-and-so's movements, but Arthur swears that the Forger just wants to look at himself longer in the mirror. He's seen him purse his lips at himself once or twice.

He hasn't brought it up, but he did think Ariadne would appreciate it when he told her. He hadn't spoken to her since he left that morning.

"Stick-in-the-mud, you're genuinely smiling," the Englishman accuses across the room. "It's almost offending me. It's putting me off-kilter. I think an angel's got its wings."

Arthur feels that familiar purse of skin form between his eyebrows. "Go away, Mr. Eames," he advises. He should know better.

Because of course, Eames doesn't take the hint. "What happened, eh?" he pursues conversationally. "You never did tell me about what happened with our dear architect."

Arthur scowls more. "Mr. Eames."

"What's going on between you two anyway?"

The question irritates him, maybe because of who asks it but also because, well, Arthur deserves this. He was the one to ask Eames to arrange it for him, so the Englishman would naturally be curious about it.

But did that mean that he was privy to it?

Arthur woke up with Ariadne's leg wrapped around his waist, and despite this being the first—or rather second time he's woken up this way— he can't help but feel unexceptionally that this is how he was meant to wake up before. Undeniably, he felt the familiar pull of a smirk as he looked at her sleeping. Her wavy brown hair was carelessly tossed over her back, her shoulder, her bare neck—he loved her neck—and her arms were tucked tightly under her chest as she laid on her stomach.

He had an itch to touch her, to trace the outlines of her back, where it dipped down to her waist. The sheet was pulled tight where she twisted but in sleeping, she didn't seem to care.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to wake up like this every morning? And for a split-second, Arthur played the what-if game with that thought, wandering down that sinfully sweet imagined place where Arthur only had to live for moments like this and not care about finding his own place. Not worrying that he's bored to flinders staying put. Not worrying that he was a no one, though known in the underground world.

But he chose to go back with new perspective. Perhaps he needed that.

Arthur sat up slightly to look at the clock on the night stand. He had an hour to get to the airport before he missed his flight and the meeting with Eames when he landed in Manila. He looked at their tangle of limbs and the sheets. Almost like taking off a band-aid, he made the decision to climb out, the cold morning air, hitting him straight through. He stood and found his pants. Ariadne shifted on the bed, and immediately, his eyes were on her. His button down on but left open. His fingers poised over the row of buttons.

"You're leaving?" she said, a little sleepily curling up to the pillow under her. Her eyes still closed, but her voice heavy with sleep.

Arthur kept his hands at the row of buttonholes and buttons, standing stock still as he watched her blink awake. Her wide eyes following his movements carefully. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she sighed the words as she attempted to lift her head, and all Arthur wanted to do was settle back into the bed with her. She radiated warmth. She radiated security. Her eyes never faltered from looking at him so contently, and Arthur wondered at how easy she took this, why she didn't immediately get mad or feel hurt. He's left her before, in situations less heavy than this, and yet, here she was, genuinely at ease with watching him go.

"I didn't want it to be this way," he said, holding his shirt a little dumbly.

Ariadne sat up, pulling the sheet across her and pulling herself up towards him. Her hands went past his own, and with small, dexterous fingers, she did them up as Arthur watched her in amazement. He lowered himself so she could adjust his collar. "Maybe this is who we are. Maybe we just function better like this," she said simply into his ear, finishing and reaching over to kiss him on the cheek. She looked back at her handiwork as Arthur stood up straight.

It was a small favor, and while she had adjusted his collar for him before, her hands smoothing out his shoulders familiarly, she had never dressed him before. As each button found its place, and as her fingers ran so closely to his chest, separated by a piece of fabric, Arthur understood that she was fine, just fine with seeing him go this time.

Arthur thought about how he was never happier, than returning to Paris just to see her. The adventure and the girl. He wondered if life can honestly be that way. He wondered if he could see her the same way as he was now, if he left in this hour.

Time, catch-up, and postcards seemed flimsy to him now.

"I'll still be in New York, whenever you come back," she reminded him, as if she read his thoughts. "We're still friends."

Arthur made his way to the closet to get his tie, and her made his way to the mirror to make it. "I know," he said, because he wasn't sure what else to say. But he felt a comfort in the fact that she said so, it was an invitation to come back to her. It was leaving the door open for him, rather than closing him out, or wondering.

Friends. It felt amazing, relishing her presence. It felt easy and comfortable just having the security of knowing what they were. They were friends. They were back to their old selves.

He turned to her again gesturing towards his half-done wardrobe, and Ariadne nodded with an exaggerated expression of being impressed, her lip quirking downward. Laughing she stood on her knees on the mattress and reached over—the sheet held to her chest—to hug him. His face went to her neck. "This is how we function," she said with that same contented, wistful lilt to her voice.

"At least we are functioning," he pointed out, smilingly.

"At least we're together," she riposted.

Eames looks at Arthur from his face, then to his seat at his desk. "It can't be nothing because you're smiling." Eames comes closer to look him over, and Arthur rolls his eyes. "But it also can't be something," he says.

Arthur looks up at that deduction, a defensive feeling in his tone, his eyes. "Eames?"

"You wouldn't be here if it was something," the Forger says with a lackadaisical shrug, walking out of the room, clearly done with picking on him for the day.

And despite his usual experience with the Forger, after all of the small annoyances, the jibes, the laughter, that comment actually stings.

* * *

Arthur lived almost a hundred plus years because of dream sharing. He had hundred of lives, some he used well, and others, he used unfairly, but maybe because of it, he decided to act so careful in how he handled his reality.

Cobb and Mal eventually grew old together, not in reality, he knew, but in a dream, he learned.

"We did get to grow old together," Cobb explained to him, weeks following the Fischer job. Arthur came to visit Dom and the children to see how he was. "I did spend my life with her, and now I'm going to spend this one with my kids."

Arthur never fully understood how Cobb allowed Mal to invade his mind and take over their plans, but he also didn't understand giving something like that a chance. He had to admire his friend for trusting something so blindly as that.

"So what do you plan to do after graduation?" he asked, leaning forward and looking her right into the eyes, and Ariadne didn't flinch as she leaned forward herself, her fork poised with chocolate cake on it.

"Anything," she replied a little smugly, taking a bite.

Arthur stood in front of the window in his London hotel a month later. She would be graduating today, and for some inexplicable reason, he pulled out his phone to call her. She tried to convince him to come visit for the parties afterward, and he shook his head good-naturedly, looking at the closed silver PASIV case on his made bed.

On the other end of the line, Ariadne spoke about her parents needing to see her soon.

"Well don't let me stop you," he said. He heard the rustle of clothing and guessed at what she was doing.

"Never," she replied quickly. He could hear the smile on her face as she spoke quickly, her breath rushed as he imagined her going about her apartment, grabbing her cap and gown. "I'll see you later Stick-in-the-Mud."

He winced at the nickname, one she picked up from Eames no doubt. "I thought you were leaving?" he asked as a revenge on that score.

For a second, Arthur debated whether he should go or not.

It sounded like she was jumping from one foot to the other. "Commencing," she corrected with a heave of air, before hanging up.

* * *

Arthur looked at the third postcard he purchased from the spinning rack. The ones to Pippa and James were easy, describing the culture and sending love and a promise to visit when he's back in the States. He knew that they'd enjoy the novelty of it. He enjoyed it himself.

So he sat in the airport near his gate, the last blank post card on his Moleskin on his knee, his pen poised over it. There was a sale on three for one, and like a tourist, he bought into it. He thought about sending the last one to Sam maybe or Liz, but letting his family know that he was here wasn't ideal. He could send one to Dom, maybe just to see how his old friend was settling in. Arthur did want someone who would understand this lifestyle, who would appreciate the old-world romance of writing thoughts down on a card, because once he sent it, Arthur wouldn't be able to read them back. His words wouldn't be his anymore.

And there was only one person he wanted to have them.

Arthur committed pen to paper. He didn't write anything of substance, but he relished writing something at all. He relished the idea that she'd be surprised by it.

He also knew that she'd get annoyed that she wouldn't be able to write back. He didn't expect anything back or anything to come from it, but it acted as a catharsis to this moving around.

He never realized how wearying it could be doing this, but he had Cobb to look out for, for a while and before that he had Mal and Cobb's experimentation to deal with. Now, everything seemed more settled and the job, started to become unreal without someone to share it with.

He ran out of room quickly, despite his small handwriting, so he signed off with a curt initial. He sent it out without a second thought.

* * *

Two weeks have gone by, and she doesn't hear from Arthur. She accepts this. It's a natural order of his work, and she has work of her own as she prepares for her flight back into the New York.

Ariadne's phone dings again, signaling the missed call and awaiting voicemail she received while climbing her stairs. She drops the Tesco bag onto the counter and makes room on the empty floor near one of her large suitcases to sit, pulling out a sandwich and bottle of water, her final repast for her time here. It's extremely reminiscent of her first meal here, and she thinks it extremely fitting.

All of her furniture has been purchased, gifted, or sent, and she only has these two large, all-consuming travel luggage as furniture. A small lamp sits in the corner, she figures she'll leave it for the next person, almost as a nice symbol. She settles her back fully on the back of one lumpy bag and brings her mobile to her ear to listen, pressing the right buttons to hear. She realizes that she never checked to see who called.

"Ariadne?" It's Arthur's voice.

"I love you." The words are sudden, rushed, breathless, almost as if he couldn't contain it in a calm, more dignified Arthur-manner. "I've said it before, I know, but I don't think I'm really tired of saying it, and, if I'm honest, I think you need to hear it. You deserve to hear it." He pauses. "This is extremely terrible to leave as a voice mail, you know? I'd rather hear a reaction when I'm putting myself on the line, though this makes it more literal.

"I'm on a flight in—" and Arthur pauses as if he's calculating something—"thirty minutes. I'm at the airport waiting to board my plane, because I realized, quite late, I know, that we should be together. Like traditional, normal together. I know that we said that we function like this but—"

He stops again and Ariadne holds the phone closer to her ear to hear it all. "I know that I said that this was just how are," he says. "But, frankly, I don't want that. It's been awful not having you there to talk to. I'm not sure how I did it before, really.

"The thing is, we can't go back or pretend that we're not anything more than just friends Ariadne. It's just foolish to pretend otherwise, but, if I want to talk to you, be there for you even more so I'll do it. I want to."

His voice stops and she can hear the faint call overhead. "Leave a voicemail if you want, I'll be on the plane soon, so in a few hours, I'll be able to listen to it. In the mean time, you can listen to this one for five hours if you replay it over and over." She listens until her automated machine tells her her options of deleting, saving, responding—

She doesn't hesitate when she presses the keys, her hand over her mouth. She flexes her fingers.

"Hello?"

Stunned. She looks at her phone, before bringing it to her cheek. "Arthur?"

"Ariadne?" The sound of her name from him startles her further.

"Have you boarded yet?" she asks, attempting levity.

"Soon." She doesn't say anything. "Ariadne?"

"I'm sorry." She holds her right temple for a moment with the tips of her fingers. "I'm trying to wrap my head around talking to you, because I thought I was going to leave a voice mail. Um, when do you think you'll be there?"

He tells her.

"Right…" she wavers, thinking.

But ever-practical Arthur is there to keep her on line. "Ariadne I'd rather hear it, rather than wait the entire flight," he says crisply, and she hears the stone cold tone in his voice as if he's preparing for the worst.

"You'll probably fall asleep," she reasons, humor her go-to.

"Ariadne," his voice scolds.

"You're right," she blurts.

"About what?"

Ariadne almost wants to slap him for being so coy. She can hear the smile on his face. "I know that I don't want to go back to what we were before either, and I'm sorry I got in the way with that before."

"You were right to."

Ariadne laughs. "Come again? Can we leave that as a voice mail for future reference?"

"You had every right to, Ariadne, and I know that I've taken you for granted at times, thinking that you'd always be there. I'm sorry too." She hears that contained smile over the phone. "So what do you want to do now?"

* * *

Ariadne stuffed the plastic kangaroo keychain into her mouth. It was a whimsical purchase from the Australian airport, which, though adorable and amusing, had the negative aspect of reminding her of that trip.

Without thinking, she opens the small metal door to her mail slot and pulls out a small, tidy stack of envelopes. She rifled through it carelessly, reading the return addresses and spotting bills with a roll of her eyes, before her fingers brush against something a little more unfamiliar.

One side was glossy. A picture of some foreign landscape, romanticized and enhanced in color to show the country at its best. Ariadne studied the photo, before turning it over, reading the short missive quickly, barely registering it, to get to the signature.

_-A_

She felt a stupid smile on her face grow at that.

* * *

She sits at her gate and, inexplicably, a stupid smile will spread across her face. Embarrassed, she covers it up with a knotted fist, her index finger curving over her top lip, her arms wound round her middle tightly.

The couple down the row eye her good-naturedly, and she takes a sip of her accidentally purchased fizzy water.

She thinks some semblance of sensibleness will help her, so she picks up her mail she pulled from her mailbox that morning. The top piece of stationary is all too familiar to her.

That stupid smile will not go away.

"So what do you want to do now?" Arthur asked, and Ariadne can't hide a smile growing on her own lips. She touched her mouth as if to verify it. Her heart began to beat rapidly at this exchange.

"You're on a flight."

"Yes."

"To New York."

"Yes."

"To see me?"

"To start over for myself. I'm thinking about school, but for you, essentially, yes."

She licked her lips, crouching forward slightly in an effort to contain herself. She pulled back her hair behind her ears, needing some sort of movement. "What are you doing Friday night?" she asked on tense pins and needles with the rush of the question.

She listened to Arthur sigh over the line. "I'll be jet-lagged, drunk, depending on how this conversation goes," he joked, and Ariadne laughed at the small attempt.

"How about dinner?" she asked, sitting in her flat, her legs stretched out in front of her, the orange glow of the single lamp nearby emanating a little more warmly than before.

He appeared to consider this question flippantly. He wasn't going to have any of this, she realized, but Ariadne bites back her excitement, enjoying this ebb and flow more than anything. "That depends on how drunk I want to get," he replied smoothly.

This. This was easy. She could talk to him for days on the line, but this was something entirely new and exciting, something easy and something entirely teasing. There was something at play that Ariadne always felt was there with him. That hint of something more that she wanted to uncover, that idea that what they were before, friends, was a precursor to something a little more. Her heart paced at the thought of it, at the newness of it. "Arthur," she chided.

She imagined him sitting at his gate. She could see him biting back that tight lipped smile of his as he leaned onto his knees, sitting in front of a window of airplanes roving on tarmac, a dark sky above. "Are you asking me out?" he asked.

"Normal, run of the mill, all couples do it dinner." She pulled her legs tight against her chest. She held her phone tightly to her ear. "Simultaneously in the same city, sitting at the same table, eating at the same restaurant, during the same time. Maybe leading to another one." She nodded at the bare window of her flat, looking at the back of the building behind hers, the windows with their hint of lights escaping the gaps between shades and curtains. She was exposed to any of them. Her naked apartment was open to anyone, a girl sitting against a suitcase on a wooden floor. "I'm feeling pretty traditional."

She heard his realization through the lines. That smile, constant. "Sounds normal," he agreed coolly. "Eight o'clock?"

She played it as well. "Sounds normal." She heard a few voices from his end, and she tried to discern them.

"Excellent—I'm sorry, I'm getting off the phone right now." She guessed he was at the gate entrance, getting his ticket scanned by a flight attendant. "I am," he said, slightly nerved. "I'm sorry—Ariadne?" His voice was back to ease, back to her.

"Arthur?" she asked, laughing at that slight break in his composure. She imagined a slightly off-kilter Arthur, walking down the accordion hallway to the plane. Travel posters and credit card ads flashed by his profile as he fixed his messenger bag onto his shoulder, he adjusted his phone to his ear.

"I have to go. I love you." It wasn't sentimental or dismissive at the end of a conversation. It was a fact that Ariadne already understood and felt safe with. It was a fact that she felt like she could own up to now.

She turned away from her window and replied readily back, "I love you too." How often had they said it of or to one another, but in a different capacity altogether? Love, Ariadne began to understand, held different pockets in her heart. Different guides and different wants and needs from her own perception of the word before. Love called a need and a want, but it also created a security, a comfort. She felt that as she replied back, stretching her legs out again, reveling in this admission from both of them. "Have a good flight."

"You too." She looked at her toes. "When will you be in?" he asked quickly. She listened to the bustle and the pardons around him as people settled into their seats.

She juggled her head from side to side. "Thirty-six hours from now?" she estimated.

"I'll get you," he said steadily in that Arthur way that left no questions or room for arguments.

"There could be delays," she couldn't help but point out.

"You guys could get lost," he added, clearly on to her.

She frowned. "These aren't the things I want to hear before my flight. In fact, I avoid watching _LOST_ and _Snakes on a Plane _for these very reasons."

He laughed. "But I'll wait for you. Just let me know your arrival time—" She heard a small voice on his end murmur something. "—I'm getting off now. I'm sorry—Ariadne?" His voice changed from professional smooth, then warm at her name. She perked up at it.

"Arthur?" she posed back.

She heard him smirk. She could see his eyes squinting slightly as he does so. "This is it."

Her toes curled. "Yeah."

"We're both sticking it out this time."

"I stuck it out the first time," she pointed out.

"You were moving and told me in a text message," he argued lightly.

"Says the man on a plane leaving in two minutes?" she questioned.

"Right. I have to go actually," he explained uneasily. "I'm getting dirty looks."

"You always get those," she chided.

And Arthur's voice is back to warning. "Ariadne," he said, sobering.

"Arthur?" she asked, attempting to be serious too.

"I love you."

Her heart peeked a little. She shook her head. "We already did this."

"I know," he said, his tone lingering, egging her on. But she didn't tire of hearing it.

She sighed. "Arthur?" she asked, mock-wearily.

"Yes, Ariadne?" he asked.

"I love you too."

Ariadne sits near her gate, that stupid smile still on her face, despite her best efforts, as she holds a familiar piece of stationary, her fingers slick on the sheeny front. It's a landscape of Manila. There are tropical trees, a stagnant volcano, a blue sky. The flag is on the side with a small, cheesy inscription of, "Wish you were here!" in swirly white script.

He must've sent it before he left for the States. Perhaps it was written in the airport and sent off quickly, but his call came faster.

Perhaps he couldn't wait too.

The message itself is succinct and short, probably the shortest one he's sent. It's also the only postcard with his name on it.

It's right there at the bottom, right after a word that she reads over and over and over. It's why she can't stop stupidly smiling.

"_Wish you were here" doesn't even begin it. _

_I'm going back. I'll be waiting._

_Love, Arthur_

And Ariadne shoves the card into her bag. She hears the voice on the loudspeaker announce boarding, so she shuffles along, gripping her messenger bag, looking at the ground and smiling to herself, still.

She'll be in New York in a few hours. She'll show him the card. She'll be able to reply properly this time. She'll start over. She'll build buildings. She'll meet new people. She'll miss Europe terribly.

But she'll be there with him.

* * *

_**A/N:** That's all folks. Well, actually there's an epilogue, and I'll post that in a couple of days. But that's my first multi-chap fic that I've finished. I feel quite accomplished actually. I do want to give major thanks to Laura-xx and SGundy for their kind reviews from the last chapter and for keeping up with the story. To anyone who has kept up with the story, really! I'm really happy you have and that you've read this far. So thanks for sticking it out, and thank you so much for the support and kind reviews I've received for this. I've learned a lot about my writing process and what should work and what doesn't because of you guys._

_You're awesome._

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	12. Epilogue

Arthur sits on the park bench, a study book in his lap as he scratches out an answer on the yellow legal pad next to him. The entire sheet's filled with notes and reminders, a few scratches here and there, and in the far corner, Arthur sees a stick doodle with an overt tie and a speech bubble.

"Test. Test. Test. Answer. Answer. Answer," the stick figure said.

Next to it was a shorter doodle with frizzy hair and a scarf wound round her neck. "Why can't we have fun?" she asked.

Arthur laughs, figuring that Ariadne must've drawn it in last night, when he finally took a break from his studying to go make dinner. She sat on his couch among his study manuals and notebooks. His laptop open on the coffee table. She curled up, her legs crossing Indian-style, as she propped a book onto her lap to look over his notes.

Arthur flips to a fresh piece of yellow legal paper, only to see another stick doodle with long hair, a scarf, and a speech bubble with the words "go have fun!" written in it. The five pages after it have similar drawings, until he looks up, happily exasperated, only to see a familiar figure walking towards him, smiling. She has the same brown wavy hair and a scarf wound round her neck like her stick-likeness. She holds coffee in one hand as she plops on the bench beside him, greeting him.

Automatically, he reaches over to kiss her, and she leans in to return it, as if she hadn't just seen him last night when said drawings were put in his legal pad. Nevertheless, he draws her in close, so that they're in constant contact, so that she's never too far away from him.

It's these small moments that make all of this worth it, Arthur knows. Without guilt, without trepidation, without self-censure he can reach over towards her and pull her against his side, so that when she offers him a sip of coffee, he lets her hold it as he takes a drag.

"How's it going?" she asks, looking over the legal pad where his notes sit. She laughs when she realizes that he's seen her drawings but keeps mum about them.

"I am having fun, by the way," he adds, looking over her shoulder. "This is what I do for fun."

"Arthur, you need to get out more."

"I do go out. I have to walk down three avenues to visit you."

She levels a look at him, her coffee in her other hand. Arthur allows her to pull the large study book across her own lap to look at. She reads through his tidy scribbles. "I don't know why you keep doing this. You've gone through this book ten times already."

"Says the girl who already has the comfort of having a master's," he says, reaching for it back. "Besides, I need something to do while you're at work."

Ariadne holds the legal pad firmly away from him. She reads a couple of lines again. "Does it feel weird?"

"Studying? I feel like that's what my job's been this whole time. Only now, it's actually fun," he adds.

Arthur asked himself before he came on the plane to New York what he was going to do here. He knew Ariadne wouldn't want the move to be about her and he also knew that he would want to have a proper plan out for himself. He was too practical for that.

While he scoffed at the idea before, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that if he were given a choice, since money wasn't an option and time was open, he would choose to go back. He planned to after that job with Eames, but as Dom told him before, when never just happens.

Easily, getting back into the field could've resulted in another job, another promise or a new contact that would need him, and he could've easily returned to it. Eames wasn't miffed at all when Arthur told him he was leaving. He seemed to expect it. Encouraged it even.

And just attempting this, attempting something new was what he needed to do. He had tests and deadlines and professors to speak to. He had programs to research. He loved the maze of it all. He loved attempting to master something and prove himself. And as Ariadne pointed out one night as she attempted to make dinner in his apartment for a change, he had to start somewhere, and school would be the best place for him.

"You like recon so much," she said, haphazardly pouring the sauce onto the pasta in such a way that flecks of red hit the counter, making Arthur wince. "Studying and prep would fit you perfectly."

Now, it was only getting the necessary forms, paying attention to the deadlines, getting the right scores. He could've hit the ground running when he first came to New York. He had a few weeks to make those things happen, but no, Arthur also realized that he had plenty of time to get to that too. The deadlines would cycle back. He had time to consider his options properly. But the girl on the bench, sitting next to him, curling her hand deliciously into his. She waited long enough.

On the bench, she looks up at him. "No. I meant staying," she elaborated. "You've been here for three months, and not once have you been tempted to do a little recon on the side?"

Arthur firmly takes her fingers into his, dragging them towards him. "No," he says, quietly emphatic. "It feels right." And the smile that pulls across Ariadne's face is genuine and slightly surprised, humbled. Arthur reaches over to kiss her for assurance, his lips perking up as they pull apart. Her eyes flutter open.

He's signed up for an unlimited access to her. To these moments, to hearing from her at all hours of the day. To hear her complain and yell at him, but also to be there to listen, to offer advice, to joke around and make him lighter.

Love, Arthur realizes, isn't just epiphanies and serendipitous moments. It's hard work and diligence. It's learning and responding. It's being there when you're supposed to be. It's a maze itself, one which Arthur continues to wander through willingly.

It's his favorite puzzle so far.

As he pulls away, leaving Ariadne leaned forward, her eyes closed for a split second, he reaches into his messenger bag to grab the metal trinkets he had made yesterday. "I meant to give this to you."

"What?" she asks, her eyes blinking open, as Arthur places it in her hand in her lap, the other one still holding his.

It's two keys on a single ring, and she looks at them dumbly in her open palm. Arthur reaches forward to point at the cold metal in her small hand. "This one," he informs her, pointing out the first gold key. "Is to the building." He points to the other one. "This one, is the key to my place." He watches her face as she looks at the tiny gold keys in her hands. She leaves her palm open, and looks at him.

"You're actually giving me a key to your place," she says, still dumbfounded.

"It's about laziness, really. Don't let it get to your head. I'm tired of buzzing you in or having you wait for me, when you could go ahead and just go up."

"Still," she continues, smiling cheekily. "You had to go get your own key copied, and you had to walk all the way over to a hardware store to do it, and then you had to come all the way over here for little old me to give it."

Arthur shakes his head. "Don't get a big head, I gave one to Liz too."

"Oh?" she asks, cupping her palm, her hand close to her chest. "Are you going away again? Need someone to water your plants? Take care of Frommer?"

Frommer is the gold fish they purchased in Chinatown on a whim, and almost like a test of his domesticity, Ariadne greets the little guy with surprise, every time she comes by, despite Arthur's insistence that he takes care of him.

Arthur sits back in faux-disbelief, his arms spreading across the back of the bench. "Actually, it was his idea."

Ariadne leans back too. "Is that so?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah. He thinks you can be trusted to have a key to our apartment. Trusts you won't sell our furniture," he leads on.

"Won't lease out the place when you go on vacation," she adds, considering her closed hand, settling into his outstretched arm.

"He also thinks that you'll start to pick up those slivers of foam board when you make your models on the coffee table."

Ariadne gasps with faux-offense. "It's charming disorder in the creepy psycho-killer tidiness that is your apartment," she insists.

Arthur turns towards her, his voice achingly serious as he considers her. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually."

"That you are a creepy psycho-killer?" she teases.

Arthur remains undaunted. "No."

"Good because that would be the second time, you know?"

"I don't actually. No," he says, slightly daunted now but smiling. He looks down at his lap before returning to her face. There's a dancing suspicion in her large brown eyes, and he knows that she's joking because she's worried about what he's going to say. Despite his answer before, he knows that she waits for him to get bored, waits for him to go back to a life she herself was so infatuated with. "I actually wanted to talk to you about making it our place," he explains, his heart pounding with each syllable.

Her face is classic surprise. Her answer is harsh to the moment. "What?"

But she found something better. Something more substantial to work with in her life. Something that infatuates her more than living in dreams, because that's what Arthur's been doing all this time. Most of his life was spent in dreams catered for others. He wanted a proper reality. He wanted his own dream to be his reality. "I think we should move in together," he says in a rush, his heart speeding with excitement.

"Is this still about laziness?" she jokes, looking at her hand.

He laughs because she has that affect on him and because it's nerves all the same. "Yes."

She quirks an eyebrow at him, and Arthur brings his face towards her. "I don't think we should be apart anymore. A few blocks is still too much for me just to get to you."

"We've only been dating for three months," she insists.

"True," he agrees, forging towards until they were inches close. "But we've been loving each other a lot longer than that," he points out. Because, like her, he's found something better, something more substantial to work with too, something he wants to build his reality off of, rather than just dreaming about.

She doesn't respond back, but he feels her lips lightly on his as she leans in. "Can't argue with that," she whispers, and he feels the her breath on his cheek.

"You really can't," he replies back, contently leaning in to kiss her, relishing how he can do that so freely, be with her so freely. He had that before, yes. She's his best friend. Only now this progress is different. There's nothing stifling or worrying, no deadlines he needs to keep in mind for his actions. No supposed adventurous dream to go work on, leaving her with the expectation of coming back and carrying on.

It's just him and the girl, and that, in itself, is the adventure.

* * *

_**A/N:** Again, many thanks to Lauraa-x and SGundy for their encouragement and support. You guys rock! And to those readers who've stuck through this. Thanks, you guys!_


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